


The Cave

by mcaulfield



Series: Sigh No More [1]
Category: Warcraft (All Media Types), World of Warcraft
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/F, It’s getting spicy, Post-BoD, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, This story has become a runaway freight train in the best way, semi-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-04-12 04:52:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19124980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcaulfield/pseuds/mcaulfield
Summary: “Jaina looked from the head of the table to her left, at Anduin talking animatedly with Tyrande, and then to the empty seat at the other end. Its emptiness bothered her. In what way, she wasn’t sure. But, despite the atrocities the Banshee had committed, Jaina couldn’t help but feel like there was something very wrong about not seeing Sylvanas Windrunner and her cold, sarcastic arrogance there. The sour feeling in her gut became restlessness.”When the Warchief of the Horde returns to her immediate arrest, Jaina finds herself wanting to figure out just what leads the Banshee Queen to make the decisions she makes — and ends up finding far more than she bargained for.





	1. Jaina

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Broken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18441557) by [JocelynTorrent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JocelynTorrent/pseuds/JocelynTorrent). 



> Please do note the suicidal ideations tag, if that’s a subject that’s sensitive for you, please don’t read this unless you’re comfortable reading representations of those thoughts!
> 
> This is a fic based around the song “The Cave” by Mumford & Sons — each chapter will be related to the quote at the beginning of the chapter, whether it be in tone, events, or otherwise. It’ll be third-person-limited POV, so each chapter will focus primarily either on Jaina or Sylvanas. It’s set a few months after the Battle of Dazar’alor. As we gain more information about the future of BfA, I will try to keep things in some sort of parallel to the canon universe or at least tie elements of that in as the plans I already have progress.
> 
> The idea for this plot was inspired by JocelynTorrent’s beautiful work Broken! You should read that. It’s good shit.

 

_It’s empty in the valley of your heart.  
_ _The sun, it rises slowly as you walk  
_ _Away from all the fears and all the faults  
_ _You’ve left behind._

 

Jaina Proudmoore looked out over Boralus Harbor from atop the walls which framed the large gate into Tiragarde Sound. Warm hues of orange morning sunlight washed over the stone she rested her hand on. Her other hand absentmindedly worried the anchor pendant she wore around her neck as Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras. She was to travel to Stormwind that day, a meeting with Horde and Alliance leadership looming over the next day.

She’d be lying if she said she had a good feeling about the meeting. About the entire situation the meeting was about, really. It wasn’t just that essentially the entirety of both the Horde and Alliance leadership would be in Stormwind, capital of the Alliance kingdoms, rather than a neutral place like Dalaran. No, it was _why_ they were there.

After the reappearance of Thrall and his assistance in freeing Baine from his imprisonment, and the chase the Alliance gave on a fleet of Horde warships that sent both factions falling down to the lost continent of Nazjatar, it was clear that Sylvanas had few — if any — allies left in the Horde outside of her own Forsaken. Even Lor’themar, whose place in the Horde he owed to Sylvanas entirely and who had reported to Sylvanas directly when she’d been alive as Ranger-General of Silvermoon, was amenable and worked with Jaina and the rest of the Alliance in navigating Nazjatar and its deadly inhabitants.

Curiously enough, Sylvanas was not present for those events. In fact, no one saw or heard from the Banshee Queen for quite some time while they strategized about how to deal with the Naga and the rising threats of Queen Azshara and N’zoth. Thrall refused to step in as an Acting Warchief in Sylvanas’ absence, though not without significant pressure from Saurfang, Baine, Anduin, and even Genn. Thrall argued that the nations were working just fine together for those sorts of tasks, as it had to be a group effort anyway to coordinate between factions. With Nathanos as acting coordinator for the Forsaken, things did, indeed, continue to work for the most part.

The Warchief’s return, however, had not been a quiet return to her position with a simple explanation for her absence — of course it wouldn’t be, it’s _Sylvanas Windrunner._ But what her return _was_ was much, much worse than Jaina had expected.

* * *

When Sylvanas had shown up unexpectedly at one of the joint Horde-Alliance war councils down on Nazjatar, leaning back in her formerly-empty spot at the right end of the long table, feet propped up on one corner with her usual arrogant carelessness, many leaders had a small jolt upon entering the makeshift room. Jaina had trouble reading the Banshee’s expression this time. _Where did you go for all this time?_ She wondered. _What have you done?_

Sylvanas somehow showed both an air of utter indifference to the goings-on of Azeroth and a smug satisfaction that Jaina thought was just the tip of whatever iceberg the Warchief brought back with her. So, when Sylvanas had opened her mouth and revealed that she’d been in _Northrend,_ speaking with _Bolvar_ about using _those Undead_ against N’zoth...a heavy silence permeated the room.

The meeting had devolved into essentially Genn yelling at Sylvanas and Nathanos trying to calm him, eventually resorting to insults and threats of violence as well if he didn’t stop personally attacking the Dark Lady. The two of them had to be restrained and removed from the room, but it was Anduin who spoke next, sitting up from the way he’d curled in on himself a bit with Genn yelling and all but frothing at the mouth over Sylvanas’ actions from the seat _right next to him._

“You know this means we cannot trust you, Sylvanas,” he began. A couple of leaders began to speak up in protest of how mild a statement that was. Even Jaina sent him a little bit of a dirty look. “What I mean is,” Anduin said in a louder, more commanding voice. “This means that we do not think you act in the interest of either the Alliance _or_ the Horde and have not for some time. _You_ told Nathanos to go out with that accursed blade and lead us all into a _trap!_ You have lost the respect of all of us save probably Nathanos and I think it is time to put an end to this.” A few heads shipped around to look at Anduin in surprise. Such statements weren’t like him, not usually. “You must pay for your crimes, Sylvanas. Crimes against the Alliance _and_ crimes against the Horde. We can do this the easy way...or the hard way. Though I’d love to avoid any more fighting between us all…”

The last bit, Anduin added almost like an afterthought, or a thought he wanted to quietly voice but was too nervous to. Jaina’s heart ached at how these wars had changed and taken a toll on the young boy who still called her “Auntie” instead of “Lord Admiral” or “Proudmoore.” He was _so young._ _Too_ young, in Jaina’s opinion. A boy like him...and, she remembered, a boy like Zekhan...neither of them should have been thrust into leadership like this. The room had grown quiet.

Sylvanas uncrossed her legs and took her feet off the table — dramatically slowly, in Jaina’s opinion — and rose. Every pair of eyes in the room was trained on her, wary, some looking as if they were ready to pounce at a moment’s notice if Sylvanas were to try anything. The Banshee walked down to Anduin’s end of the table slowly, each step taken with a feline sort of purpose. _Stalking her prey,_ Jaina was sure.

When she came to stand next to Anduin, a good bit taller than him, they were as close as they had been that day in Lordaeron — after which, Sylvanas promptly Blighted the _entire_ city. Jaina’s grip around her staff tightened and she began to draw on the arcane which swelled beneath the ground in case she needed to react quickly. The Warchief, however, made no moves.

“Well?” Sylvanas asked, voice low and laden with sarcasm. “Are you going to chain me up or not, _boy-king?”_

Looking around quickly, Jaina could see the entire room was ready to attack should they need to. No weapons were drawn, not yet, but every leader in that room was more than ready to. Anduin, a bit fear-stricken, gestured for the guards posted at the door to come cuff the Banshee. _“Magical ones,”_ he’d murmured.

The guards were wary of their task but Sylvanas _still_ put up no resistance. Jaina was starting to wonder if there even really _was_ a trap. Looking closely, while cold and confident as ever, Jaina could see that Sylvanas’ expression was devoid of any sort of the preemptive, sick glee she’d expected to see.

“Take her to the stockades,” Anduin ordered. “In Stormwind.”

The silence that followed the Banshee’s departure, particularly with Genn and Nathanos still relegated to separate rooms, was deafening. Anduin took a deep breath and sat back down, glancing at Jaina with a tired expression. Jaina responded with a sigh of her own and returned to her internal musings.

Once Genn and Nathanos were permitted to return, given that they agreed not to have any argumentative interaction, the matter of what to _do_ about Sylvanas hung heavy in the air. Anduin was the one to suggest that be taken care of at a separate meeting and everyone was largely in agreement.

* * *

And so, there she was, Jaina Proudmoore, watching the sun rise over her homeland, knowing it wasn’t long before she would have to travel to Stormwind and give voice to her opinions while listening to and considering the opinions of the rest of the Alliance and Horde leaders alike. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, murmuring a simple, traditional prayer to the Tides as she exhaled, hoping the meeting would bring about resolution and, somehow, the peace she always felt was _just_ out of reach. The peace bit was a bit of a stretch, she knew, but she would never think to avoid it in her prayers — miracles weren’t impossible.

When Jaina was ready, or as ready as she felt she _could_ be given the circumstances, she fashioned a quick portal to Stormwind next to her in Proudmoore Keep and stepped through. Staring up at Stormwind Keep, she knew  that, in that building, were leaders from both the Alliance and Horde and, under her feet, were some of the cells of the Stormwind stockades. It was possible that _Sylvanas_ was under her feet. Jaina repressed a shudder and forced herself to head inside.  

Things were mostly quiet in the Keep until she got to the room the war council was meeting in. She wasn’t the last one there but she wasn’t the first one either, so the few who _were_ there already — Anduin, Genn, Tyrande, Baine, and Thrall, respectively — looked up and greeted her as she entered. She still had that festering feeling inside of her, that something about this was _wrong,_ or that something might happen, maybe. She wasn’t sure how to interpret it but it didn’t feel good and wouldn’t seem to go away.

After some time, the room had filled, the remaining leaders of each faction settling in mostly quietly, though some spoke amongst themselves. Genn and Nathanos seemed to have taken to glaring silently at each other from all the way across the table, corner to corner. It was no secret that they were angry — or what they were angry about. They each had experienced pain and loss and felt fiercely protective of their family. _Would Nathanos consider Sylvanas “family?” Do the Forsaken even have families?_

Jaina Proudmoore understood anger and loss more than most — perhaps more than nearly all but the Banshee Queen herself. Looking along both sides of the table before her, at the Horde and Alliance leadership there, she felt out of place. They spoke of victories, of strategies, of _hope._

Something sour weighed heavily in her gut. She may not have been as old as Tyrande, as Saurfang, as Genn — she was one of the youngest leaders there, in fact — but she had already grown so tired of the cycle of this world. The way war and strife marred its surface, then was paved over with new leaders and new life, only to be marred again by the very ones who emerged from the previous wars...the ones who were supposed to be “promising” leaders. Maybe she had not _seen_ all of these wars, these cycles, not personally, but she wasn’t ignorant to the past.

Jaina looked from the head of the table to her left, at Anduin talking animatedly with Tyrande, and then to the empty seat at the other end. Its emptiness bothered her. In what way, she wasn’t sure. But, despite the atrocities the Banshee had committed, Jaina couldn’t help but feel like there was something very _wrong_ about not seeing Sylvanas Windrunner and her cold, sarcastic arrogance there. The sour feeling in her gut became restlessness.

Jaina stood up, drawing the attention of the others, which she internally winced at. _Am I really going to go do this?_ She wondered, now that she had the eyes of the entire Horde and Alliance leadership upon her. The sour feeling in her gut made itself known again. _Yes. Yes, I am. This isn’t right._

“Before we determine something like _execution_ for the Banshee,” she began, “I think it would be prudent of me to speak with her.” That earned her a few looks of confusion. “We need to know _why_ she did this. It wouldn’t sit right with me for this not to be carried out as any other trial would, even _with_ the scope of her crimes.” She heard a suppressed growl emanating from Genn but ignored it completely. Thrall and Anduin looked at one another and nodded.

“It is fine by me,” Thrall spoke, having acted thus far as a mediator of sorts since he was not currently formally affiliated with _either_ faction. “We will continue to discuss up here, but if you feel so compelled as to go talk to her...then go.” It wasn’t the _warmest_ she’d heard him, that’s for sure, but Jaina didn’t care much if anyone agreed with her trying to find out more about what made Sylvanas Windrunner do the things she did. What her real motivations were throughout this war.


	2. Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something about this story really has my mind churning, so enjoy an expedient update!

 

_The harvest left no food for you to eat,  
_ _You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see.  
_ _But I have seen the same,  
_ _I know the shame in your defeat._

 

The other stockades in the hall where Sylvanas was held were empty and, when Jaina arrived at Sylvanas' cell, blazing red eyes staring back at her, she noticed there was a gag in the Banshee's mouth. _Smart,_ she remarked internally. _They probably don't want any burst eardrums._ As she got closer, however, she could see imprints of the cloth digging into Sylvanas' flesh, her teeth clamped down around the thick folds of it, not even allowing her mouth to fully close. Jaina furrowed her brow and looked back up into Sylvanas' eyes. Jaina let out a huff.

"Come here," she said, almost like a parent corralling a child. Sylvanas didn't move from her place halfway across the cell. Jaina took a steadying breath. She was here to get answers, not to be yet another leader who'd screamed at the Banshee Queen in anger — no matter _how_ much she hated her. "Just get over here, Sylvanas. Let me take that off of you."

That earned a quirked eyebrow and, from the mischief that sparked in those glowing red eyes, Jaina could assume, roughly, that the distorted curl the Warchief's mouth gave was a smirk. As Sylvanas strode over to her, somehow still with the grace of a predator stalking its prey despite having been mistreated in a prison cell for over a week, Jaina found herself regretting her words and expecting a snide remark from Sylvanas as soon as the gag was removed.

She was right, of course. After offering the back of her head to Jaina, allowing her to take the cloth gag from her mouth, and turning around while rubbing her skin where the cloth had dug in, Sylvanas looked back at Jaina with what was _definitely_ a predatory smirk.

"Usually I like a girl to ask me out to _dinner_ first, _Lord Admiral,"_ Sylvanas quipped. Jaina just glared back at the Banshee Queen. "No? Then _why are you here?"_ Sylvanas added after a moment, not without a hint of malice. Jaina started a bit at the level of discontent Sylvanas seemed to feel at being given audience with someone who was letting her _talk_ for the first time in about a week.

“I want answers,” Jaina replied honestly. That earned her a raised eyebrow but no other response from the Banshee. She sighed. _I knew this wasn’t going to be easy._ “I want to know why you did the things you did in this war, to _start_ this war.” Sylvanas seemed to almost bristle at that. _Good. We’re getting somewhere._

 _“I_ did not start this war, _Proudmoore,”_ Sylvanas sneered. She opened her mouth to say more but Jaina cut her off.

“No? Then what would you call Teldrassil? A preemptive strike?”

“If it were actually preemptive, then maybe,” Sylvanas replied. She cleared her throat. “No, this war began before that.” Jaina crossed her arms.

“The question of _why_ still stands.”

Sylvanas sighed and paced to one side of the cell before looking back at Jaina. Her eyes glowed a deeper hue of red and narrowed a touch. She began to walk back towards Jaina, a current of anger coursing beneath her skin strong enough that Jaina could sense it as plainly as she could sense traces of the arcane in her day to day life.

“You’re one who understands the connection between anger and hope, aren’t you, _Lord Admiral?”_ Sylvanas sneered, daring to walk right up to the door of the cell, the bars being nearly the only thing between the two women. “Of the ebb and flow between the two? How they influence each other?” Jaina crossed her arms and leaned on one hip.

“Yes,” she replied, not quite seeing where Sylvanas’ questions were leading. Sylvanas’ proximity unnerved her a bit but she’d be damned if she’d back down even an inch.

“And I’m sure you know, more than mostly anyone,” Sylvanas practically purred, bringing her magically-bound hands up to grasp the bars between herself and Jaina, “how _rage_ can _tear hope apart.”_ A feral smirk graced the Warchief’s lips as she leaned even closer to Jaina, close enough for the mage to feel cold breath wash over her skin. Jaina raised an eyebrow.

“So you burned Teldrassil because you were overcome with _rage,_ then, is that it?” She said, not bothering to hide how unimpressed she was. There was no way Sylvanas was so simple a creature, not with the way her mind worked, Jaina was sure.

A puff of cold air that smelled of cold steel and something...else, something...sweeter, perhaps? Washed over Jaina again as Sylvanas let one sharp laugh out.

 _“Hardly,”_ the Banshee drawled. “Surely you have more critical thinking skills than that, _Lady Proudmoore.”_ Jaina bristled at the way Sylvanas said her name. _Steady breaths, Jaina. You’re here to get_ answers, _not turn the Warchief into vapor._ The arcane that had begun to spark around her fingertips faded away. Sylvanas noticed this, and glanced down at Jaina’s hands. “Give me your hands.”

“What?” Jaina blanched, taking a half step back. Sylvanas quirked an eyebrow, amused.

“Give...me...your...hands,” she all but spelled out. She gestured at them with a nod of her head. “Put your hands on mine.”

“If this is some kind of trick to get yourself free, Sylvanas, it’s not going to work.”

“It’s no trick. I’m not _capable_ of any trickery bound by these infernal cuffs. At least, nothing of the metaphysical variety.” Jaina was dubious. “Come on. Humor an old corpse?”

Jaina repressed a shudder at Sylvanas’ words and sickly-sweet tone. She glared at Sylvanas’ hands, still grasping the bar between them. She’d rather eat a pile of sawdust than willingly make bodily contact with _Sylvanas Windrunner._ But, _knowing_ Sylvanas…

“You’re not going to give me any answers unless I do this, are you,” Jaina deadpanned. Sylvanas’ smirk only grew into a toothy grin. Jaina sighed, exasperated, and rolled her eyes. _“Fine._ But _only_ if you will answer my questions.” Sylvanas hummed, as if in thought.

“You have a deal, then, Proudmoore,” the Banshee Queen replied.

Jaina eyed Sylvanas’ hands again, swallowing back disgust and disbelief that she was really about to _touch_ the Warchief. That she was about to lay her hands on hands _so bloodied,_ so covered in sin and rage. And yet she did just that.

Sylvanas’ hands were cold, which Jaina had somewhat expected. What she _hadn’t_ expected, however, was how _smooth_ the skin of the Warchief’s fingers and backs of her hands were. How...soft, it almost seemed they were. Sylvanas’ eyes flashed down to their hands, as if surprised by something as well, but the look passed so quickly Jaina wasn’t even sure it happened at all. _Well. Certainly not what I’d expected Forsaken skin to feel like,_ she mused internally.

Sylvanas leaned ever closer to Jaina, her nose nearly passing between the bars. Jaina tensed her shoulders and back to prevent herself from budging — she’d already given half a step, she _wouldn’t_ give any more.

“You and I are not so unalike,” Sylvanas began, voice low and barely above a murmur. “I mean this in many ways, but one in particular — we have both made insurmountable sacrifices for our people. And suffered greatly for it.” Jaina swallowed thickly, unable to tear her eyes away from the bizarre sight of her own hands covering the Warchief’s. “The difference lies in how, specifically, we have made those sacrifices...think back to Teldrassil, for example. Would it surprise you to know Teldrassil was never meant to burn?” _That_ got Jaina to look up. She tried to search the Warchief’s eyes, which burned low like dying embers.

“What do you _mean_ Teldrassil wasn’t supposed to burn?” Jaina hissed. “You had _everything_ prepared for it. You had _all_ of the firepower you’d need, _right_ at their doorstep.”

“It was supposed to be a _display_ of force. A _threat._ Nothing I had ever planned to actually put into _use,”_ Sylvanas replied.

“And you expect me to _believe_ that?” Jaina asked, incredulous. She nearly began to remove her hands from Sylvanas’ until she felt a cold thumb gently hold some of her fingers in place. Jaina narrowed her eyes at Sylvanas.

“It was a contingency I had to prepare myself for in case the Kaldorei called our bluff, but no...Teldrassil was _not_ supposed to burn. _Malfurion Stormrage,”_ Sylvanas all but growled, her eyes flaring. “Was supposed to _die._ Teldrassil would have been _ours_ for the taking, a _new stronghold_ for the Forsaken as we secured the continent of Kalimdor for the Horde. Had Saurfang not faltered that day, I could have secured peace and a stable place of living for the Horde for _generations._ The war could have been _over.”_

While Sylvanas had spoken, tendrils of smoke periodically rose from her arms, her shoulders, even from her _eyes_ at times, though they were cut off each time by surges of energy from the magical cuffs — Jaina could sense it each time it happened and knew Sylvanas had to have _hurt_ each time. She drew a modicum of pleasure from that knowledge but was surprised when Sylvanas’ resolve and voice never wavered one bit. That level of conviction made Jaina inclined to want to believe the Banshee’s story to be true.

“What does that have to do with _my_ knowledge of anger and hope?” Jaina asked, still failing to see that connection. Sylvanas’ next smile could only be described as bitter.

“While we all know no plan survives contact with the enemy,” Sylvanas began, voice even and unreadable, “if that one had...then perhaps my people could have known peace.” Jaina’s eyes darted back and forth between Sylvanas’. Was that... _sadness_ the Warchief was trying to hide?

“So, what...were you trying to push the Kaldorei out of Teldrassil, assuming they’d somehow _leave you alone_ to take their World Tree?”

“Not _exactly,_ no...I’m no fool, Lord Admiral.” Jaina was surprised to find very little malice in how Sylvanas said her title — if anything, the Warchief mostly sounded _tired_ at this point. “I knew that bringing what remained of the Horde in the Eastern Kingdoms over to Kalimdor meant sacrifice...would have meant sacrificing Lordaeron...the _Sunwell._ Surely, Whisperwind would have been _overjoyed_ to sink her teeth into the Sin’dorei stronghold.” Sylvanas’ eyes flared dangerously and it felt as though the room even _darkened_ a touch with the Warchief’s next words — Jaina herself nearly felt the strength of the arcane pulse the cuffs pumped into Sylvanas’ body. _“My home.”_

Jaina bit back a gasp. She hadn’t considered what Sylvanas would have been _giving up_ in order for the Horde to have its unified continent — Lordaeron and Quel’thalas, Tirisfal Glades and Silverpine Forest, the lands Sylvanas had lived, died, and lived again to protect. What’s more, she had to concede Sylvanas was probably _right._ Tyrande _would_ have taken some sort of twisted pleasure in occupying those lands. She would have known how much Sylvanas _loathed_ the idea of the Kaldorei occupying her home.

“So you see, Proudmoore, how _really_ what I wanted was to give my Forsaken and the Sin’dorei a new _home._ Not just to burn a _World Tree_ to the ground for the sake of, what? Terror? The fact that your Alliance at _all_ thinks I’m that simple is pathetic.” Sylvanas paused, letting an amused smile onto her face. “And you can loosen your grip on my hands now.” Jaina’s eyes widened, not realizing she’d gripped Sylvanas’ hands any tighter as realization had washed over her.

“But...what of Lordaeron then? And _Derek?”_ The temperature in the room dipped as Jaina thought of her risen brother back in Boralus — how the Banshee had _violated_ his body, how Baine had to risk his _life_ to go against Sylvanas and return Derek to Jaina and her family. Tiny bolts of arcane arced across Jaina’s fingertips before being sucked into the cuffs around Sylvanas’ wrists, causing her to narrow her eyes at the mage.

“If you would _kindly_ not do that, that would be appreciated.” Jaina returned Sylvanas’ glare.

“Only. If. You. _Talk.”_ Jaina bit out each word, feeling as though she’d shake with the effort it took not to unleash a torrent of arcane _pain_ upon the Banshee. Sylvanas sighed overdramatically, obviously testing Jaina’s self-control.

“You weren’t supposed to be at Lordaeron,” Sylvanas deadpanned.

“I wasn’t.”

“You ruined my plans.”

“I suppose I did.”

“I didn’t _want_ to use that much Blight.”

“You shouldn’t _want_ to use the Blight at all!”

 _“We do what we must,”_ Sylvanas hissed, eyes flaring dangerously. Jaina felt another pulse surge from the cuffs into Sylvanas’ body. Having been on the receiving end of some of those pulses before, in her more rebellious days, Jaina continued to marvel at how unaffected Sylvanas managed to appear — even someone like the Banshee Queen should have felt pain from _those._ “I promised safety for the Horde _at any cost,_ Jaina,” Sylvanas snarled. Jaina raised an eyebrow at the use of her name and the Warchief sneered as if daring her to call her on it. “My tactics may not be _honorable_ but they’re _effective_ and I would rather have a Horde to call on at the end of the day than a battlefield of the _dead_ to look on as though my actions of _‘honor’_ were worth the bloodshed.”

“The Blight should have been _destroyed. Outlawed,_ for Tides’ sake! After the Wrathgate—”

Black smoke billowed from Sylvanas’ arms despite the steady thrum of arcane that pulsed through the cuffs into the Warchief’s body. Sylvanas’ stature seemed to grow in front of Jaina, as if rage alone could make her grow in size.

 _“What happened at the Wrathgate was TREASON!”_ Sylvanas yelled, voice echoing around the chambers as Jaina knew she’d made a critical mistake in bringing up _that_ aspect of the past. The scent of singed flesh reached her nostrils and she looked down to see _actual_ smoke mingling with the “smoke” of Sylvanas’ Banshee form struggling to break free.

“Sylvanas, sto—”

_“QUIET, Proudmoore! You know NOTHING of which you speak. You know NOTHING of what I’ve had to do in order to find a fucking HOME for my people! Just a place for them to REST after the torment they’ve been put through!”_

“Sylvanas—”

_“Ever since we broke free of Arthas’ control we have been fighting against a clock that can only be reset so many times! And I KNOW what awaits them should they meet their final death! I would do ANYTHING to prevent that, to save them from that—”_

_“SYLVANAS!”_ Jaina bellowed, eyes blue with arcane power as she wrapped her own energy around Sylvanas’ arms, applying pressure to the Warchief’s shoulders as if to ground her, soothing the skin around her cuffs with frost magic while tightening her hold on the Warchief’s hands.

Sylvanas froze, her red eyes burning straight into Jaina’s blue, suddenly aware of the excruciating _pain_ that coursed through her body, the _ache_ of arcane saturating dead nerve endings, deflating instantly, her legs nearly giving out as she came down from her anger, practically holding herself up by the very hands that were now being stroked gently by Jaina’s thumbs. She sent a weak glare Jaina’s way at that.

“Sylvanas…” Jaina said, hating herself for the sympathy that bled into her voice. She slid her fingertips up to Sylvanas’ wrists, gently feeling the skin around the cuffs, feeling the burns that cracked Sylvanas’ flesh as surely as anger had coursed through Sylvanas’ veins. She dared look up at Sylvanas, who simply scoffed and looked away.

“You know _nothing_ of me,” Sylvanas said quietly. She wouldn’t let Jaina see enough of her face to be sure, but Jaina thought she saw a haunted, hollow look in the Warchief’s eyes she knew too well from her own mirror. _But maybe I could…_

Jaina’s thoughts were interrupted by a clamor at the bottom of the stairs behind her. She released the Warchief’s hands as though _she’d_ been burned and wheeled around to look at who had come down the stairs so hurried.

“Jaina, are you all right? I heard—”

“I am _fine,_ Anduin,” she replied softly, beginning to walk towards him as he hurried towards her.

“But I heard Sylvanas—”

“Yelling, perhaps. But she is cuffed, she cannot invoke her Banshee’s scream down here,” Jaina continued to reassure the boy before her who looked far too much like the teen who called her ‘Auntie’ and far too little like the High King of Stormwind. “I am _safe.”_

Anduin huffed out a breath, glaring around Jaina at Sylvanas, who stood a few paces back from the door to her cell with, to her credit, a neutral expression. He opened his mouth to speak but then turned around briskly.

“Talks have slowed upstairs, Jaina,” he said evenly. “We will want to hear your thoughts soon. I hope...I hope you join us soon,” he finished, a touch of the timid boy Jaina knew too well creeping back into his tone.


	3. Jaina / Sylvanas

 

 _Well, I will hold on hope and_  
_I won’t let you choke_ _  
On the noose around your neck._

 _And I’ll find strength in pain, and_  
_I will know my ways,_ _  
I’ll know my name as it’s called again._

 

Jaina closed her eyes and counted steady breaths — four counts in, four counts out — before she turned to face Sylvanas again. Sylvanas, who had nearly broken through the confines of the human kingdom’s strongest anti-magic cuffs. Sylvanas, whose rage and anguish was strong enough to drive her to any length, even if it spelled catastrophe for others. Sylvanas, who…

She took steady steps back up to the bars of Sylvanas’ cell, wrapping her fingers around the bar where their hands had been before. She met the Warchief’s eyes with as open an expression as she could manage with the thoughts now swirling around in her head. _Was_ Sylvanas Windrunner simply bloodthirsty, waging war on life itself, looking to enslave the world’s populace for her own ends? Or were her motivations for violence more...understandable?

Jaina was loath to admit it but there was something in what Sylvanas had said in her rage that Jaina knew all too well. It had fueled her _own_ rage, her _own_ crusade as the Alliance and the Horde battled the Burning Legion as a unified front. It had nearly consumed her until she’d grown too tired to keep it up. It burned through her, leaving a trail of hatred and bloodshed behind her.

“Not so unalike, after all…” she muttered, gazing down towards the floor, lost in thought until she saw Sylvanas step into her space and place her hands atop Jaina’s own. The cold of the Banshee’s hands drew her attention to them instantly again, though this time along with Sylvanas’ surprisingly soft skin she felt the occasional callus from where the Warchief’s fingers had fired arrow after arrow. Jaina hazarded a glance at Sylvanas.

“Now you see it,” Sylvanas said, addressing Jaina in a muted tone. “Now you understand...in many cases, I had no other choice.”

“But you _did_ have another choice, Sylvanas,” Jaina replied, leaning closer to the bars between them. “You always did…”

 _“No,”_ Sylvanas began, eyes flaring dangerously and voice thick with rage. “I _didn’t._ Your _Alliance_ never _gave_ me another choice.” The Banshee’s hands clenched tighter around Jaina’s, though not enough to hurt. _“I am the monster, Jaina._ The _abomination._ The godforsaken _Banshee._ The one _never to be trusted. Never_ to be worked with. Even the _Horde_ never has trusted me. _Only the Forsaken do.”_

Jaina felt her chest clench at Sylvanas’ words...she was _right._ None but the Forsaken truly _trusted_ Sylvanas — even some of _them_ had defected to Saurfang’s rebellion with Zekhan. And it hadn’t begun just because of the Warchief’s recent actions. No, it had always been this way. And Sylvanas was also likely right to believe she had to play that part — the monster, the abomination.

 _Damn_ her diplomatic sympathies, she was supposed to _hate_ the creature in front of her. Not...feel like the Banshee Queen, the _burner of Teldrassil,_ the _Warchief of the Horde_ was some gravely misunderstood being pushed to her limits and doing whatever she could to survive and help a people who might not even help her in return. Jaina scowled.

“You could have _stopped.”_

Sylvanas scoffed, taking her hands off of Jaina’s and pacing back into her cell a bit. She looked back at Jaina over her shoulder.

“And what, let the _Alliance_ wipe us out? Let my people die, day by day, their _final death?_ Without the Horde, the Forsaken would cease to exist. And for the Horde to live on, I have taken the only paths available to me.”

“You cannot truly believe that—”

 _“I do.”_ Sylvanas’ eyes flashed again and in a heartbeat was back at the bars to her cell, hands on Jaina’s again. _“Because I already tried the other ways.”_ Jaina’s face reflected her confusion. Sylvanas tightened her grip on Jaina’s hands once again. “Other leaders of the Horde _declined_ my other ideas in favor of taking matters into their _own_ hands — doing nearly exactly what I’d proposed but under their _own authority._ Because _my word_ wasn’t enough and because I had never been one for _politics,_ so why would I start now?”

Jaina took a deep breath, preparing herself for the anger she anticipated in response to her next question.

“Then why let yourself be captured?”

The anger she expected never came. Sylvanas’ eyes never flared, there was no pulse of arcane suppressing the Warchief’s Banshee energy, she didn’t even bare her teeth at Jaina. She simply turned away, taking a seat on the cot in the back of the cell.

“I’ve done all that I can.”

The Warchief’s voice was quiet, devoid of nearly all emotion. She stared off into space across the cell, granting Jaina no insight into her emotional state whatsoever. She was perfectly still — almost eerily so, since she didn’t need to breathe.

“What? I—”

“I have done,” Sylvanas repeated, “all that I can.” Sylvanas continued to stare straight across the cell at the wall. “I have spoken with people all across Azeroth of all backgrounds and practices about how to ensure the survival, even growth of my Forsaken. We are not immortal beings, at least not most of us. Many of my Forsaken were ripped apart by Arthas...mentally, spiritually, or bodily. As they are not whole, they continue to slowly decay. There are...relatively few of the Forsaken who are complete enough to command control over their physical forms and remain so solidly tethered to them. Even those I’ve raised since our escape from the Lich King’s control often were so brutally killed the first time that I’ve been unable to restore them fully.” Sylvanas sighed, dropping her gaze a fraction. “With the Val’kyr, there was hope. They could keep my people’s energy vibrant and replenished. But with our losses in this war...and with my own deaths prior...the original Val’kyr who entered a pact with me are dwindling.”

Jaina recalled a story Genn had told her during his time on the Broken Isles — how he found Sylvanas’ plot in Stormheim to enslave the Val’kyr that dwelled there, to shackle them to her will. _How much of that was as he said it was?_ She found herself wondering. _How much of that was_ Genn’s _anger?_

“The next time I die,” Sylvanas continued, bringing Jaina out of her thoughts. “I will have to make a choice.” The Warchief met Jaina’s eyes then. “Either I revive myself...or I enter that abyss alone in the hopes that the remaining Val’kyr can keep my Forsaken going for as long as they may need.”

“What...abyss…?” Jaina began to ask.

“Go now,” Sylvanas commanded quietly, staring at the wall again. “Leave me be.”

“I…”

_“Go.”_

Confused but under no illusions that the conversation was anything but over, Jaina made her way back up the stairs into Stormwind Keep. She wasn’t sure what had transpired down in the Stockades, but she wasn’t done trying to understand the Warchief either.

 _Understand the Warchief,_ she thought, nearly laughing at herself. _Listen to yourself, Jaina. You act as though the Banshee Queen were truly capable of feeling, of caring at all._ But there was a nagging part of her that believed Sylvanas did.

Conversations in the war room died down as Jaina reentered, though she hardly noticed in the confused daze she felt as she made her way back to her seat. She stared down at the table before her before turning her attention to the empty seat at the end of the table where Sylvanas should have been. Memory of the Banshee’s words echoed through her head: “ _I am the monster, Jaina.”_

“Jaina, welcome back,” Anduin greeted softly. Jaina looked back at Anduin, trying to hide how she’d been knocked out of some sort of reverie.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“Have you learned anything of value from our prisoner that may...sway our decision?” He asked. Jaina felt the eyes of every leader in the room upon her heavily. Her chest felt tight and her mind swirled in indecision. Sylvanas’ words echoed in her head again: _“Even the Horde never has trusted me.”_

* * *

In the Stockades, Sylvanas alternated between pacing the short length of her cell and sitting perfectly still, not a muscle in her body moving as she awaited her fate. The guard at the end of the hall, who had returned shortly after Jaina’s departure, kept a wary eye on her. She couldn’t tell if her stillness or her restlessness bothered him more. She wished she knew — there was little joy left for her beyond sensing the impact she could have on others.

Her exchange with Jaina had taken more out of her than she’d expected — and shaken her up in ways she’d rather not have remembered. And her _hands —_ those _burning_ hands which seemed to nearly scorch Sylvanas’ skin where they touched from the sheer temperature difference and how the lick of the arcane always coursing throughout the archmage’s body sparked against her undead energy. _Did Jaina feel it, too?_ She wondered. It had nearly _hurt_ at first — though she realized she’d rather it had.

No, the way Jaina’s energy sparked with her own _unnerved_ her. It was too familiar — too much like how any touch of the arcane sang to any _living_ elf. Was this just an effect caused by the sheer power of the archmage? Was this why _Vereesa_ always seemed to cling to—

Sylvanas snarled, standing abruptly. The guard at the end of the hall shuffled in surprise. She could sense his fear in the air and savored it, allowing the familiar feeling to ground her. No, she would _not_ think of her _sisters_ now. She would _not_ think of Vereesa and Alleria, their _hatred_ and _rage_ so pointed at her that she could not even begin to bridge the gap there.

And for what? Because she had _died?_ Because she had been _slaughtered_ by Arthas’ accursed blade, her soul torn from her body and twisted in ways she never even imagined possible? _Because she had broken free of his control and survived?_ Some victories had to be celebrated alone, she supposed.

 _Victories._ The idea made her want to simultaneously laugh and scream. She put on a good facade, the _perfect_ visage of emotionless control, but deep down it was fueled by _pain._ Every battle she fought, she fought for her _people._ Every life she ended, she ended ultimately for their _defense._ Every body she raised, she raised _to continue a legacy._ But victory for the _Horde?_ It felt so shallow now.

Shackled underground, guarded day and night, never even _asked_ if she needed food or any other sustenance, so captured by not only the _Alliance_ but by _all_ of Azeroth’s leadership — her _allies,_ or so she once thought. Was _this_ the victory she fought for?

Sylvanas thought to the leaders above, coming together for the sole purpose of _voting on her execution._ But she had to remind herself — in “splintering” the Horde, she had pushed the Horde leadership into unilateral cooperation with the Alliance yet again. She had turned the Alliance’s spearheads and swords away from the Horde and onto herself. She had even lead Saurfang to _Thrall —_ the former Warchief who believed in cooperation and compromise — and Thrall had _returned._

Turning away from the guard so he wouldn’t see, Sylvanas clenched a fist over her chest. The sensation that stirred there was uncomfortable. Anything akin to something on the _positive_ axis of emotions always felt this way. It burned in a way that made her think of _other_ things that had once felt this way — of things _before_ her death. Her face contorted into rage. Rage was better. Rage was safer.

Rage meant that, when the time came and she faced her executioner, Sylvanas Windrunner would not flinch. And she would not call upon the Val’kyr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas Windrunner Feels An Emotion? o:


	4. Sylvanas

 

 _‘Cause I have other things to fill my time,_  
_You take what is yours and I’ll take mine._  
 _Now, let me at the truth that will refresh my broken mind._

 

Time.

Time is what Jaina Proudmoore, Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, Ambassador of the Alliance, was able to get her more of. Just...time. Before her enemies and allies would come together to bring about her end. The thought enraged Sylvanas — if it weren’t for the meddling, diplomatic side of the archmage, she could have just gotten it over with and been executed. And, though she held no desire to meet what awaited her on the other side any sooner than she needed to, the suspense was possibly worse.

So when Jaina Proudmoore came and stood by Sylvanas’ cell for the third time that week and told her she was given another week, so Jaina could _talk_ to her, she rushed the cell door and snarled from behind the bars.

“What point is there in trying to get more _information_ out of me at this point, _Lord Admiral?”_ Sylvanas all but spat the title at Proudmoore’s feet. “Is this your idea of _torture?_ Because, if so, it’s rather _weak.”_ All at once she had to understand _why_ she was drawn into another week of this torment without looking as though it were wearing on her in any way.

But wear on her it did — none of the jailors she’d faced had once asked if she required any sort of sustenance and, because of this, she felt her control over her mind, her emotions, and her anchor to her body in flux. Perhaps that was the more concerning bit — the longer she went without replenishing her energy, the closer to the abyss she drew even _naturally._ Yes, Sylvanas Windrunner _could die._ And she wasn’t sure if she hoped she’d drop dead before the entire week was up or experience a clean execution that would sever the tie immediately instead of this drawn-out, flickering tease at the dark void which awaited her.

Jaina sighed, looking as though she were resigning to say something she had no desire to truly say to the Banshee Queen, as if she were swallowing a sour taste before opening her mouth.

“There are...things you’ve said to me, admittedly, that intrigue me. That...aren’t so foreign to me. You were right to say we’re not so different.” Jaina’s hand halfway lifted towards the bars between them, but she hesitated and dropped it after a moment. She continued in a slightly quieter voice. “Some of this was selfish of me.”

 _That_ piqued Sylvanas’ interest. Here was Jaina Proudmoore, renowned diplomat, always doing what she could for the betterment of her Alliance or even for Azeroth as a whole, sacrificing herself for the “greater good,” admitting she had a selfish desire to speak to “the burner of Teldrassil,” as she’d so eloquently put it just a few days prior. One of her eyebrows quirked up to reflect that interest.

Jaina sighed and stepped forward, actually placing one hand on the bars between them. Sylvanas met the mage’s eyes in a bit of a challenge, wondering if Jaina was expecting her to touch her again. Something unpleasant squirmed in Sylvanas’ spine — it was as if Jaina _expected_ Sylvanas to wrap her hands around the mage’s again. What did that mean? _Did Jaina— no. Did the_ Lord Admiral _feel how her energy had crackled around mine? The absolute_ power _there?_ Sylvanas felt a tug in her malnourished core. _Perhaps she would siphon some to me…_

Sylvanas knew her energy stores were growing very low if she was considering propositioning a leader of the _Alliance_ to lend her energy. And she knew it would not be a pleasant experience for the Lord Admiral, either. _Well, not usually. But the only way to make it anything less than painful would be to…_ She shook her head. She would _not_ proposition the archmage for anything more than a bit of _energy_ transfer. Surely, Jaina’s mana stores could take the hit…

Sylvanas’ hands clasped over Jaina’s one hand on the bars of her cell before she even realized she’d begun to move towards the archmage. She had done so quickly, evidenced by the small jolt that Jaina gave at her movement — _or was it that energy?_ Their eyes burned into one another. The current of arcane that flowed through Jaina’s body like liquid heat burned at Sylvanas’ re-dying nerve endings. It was nearly unbearable but she couldn’t tear herself away. Unbidden, she looked down at their hands and licked her lips.

“Jaina…” Sylvanas paused. _“Proudmoore._ You said a week. Will it be here, in the Stormwind Stockades?” They were...less than pleasant, though she supposed as a prisoner she no longer got any courtesies despite her position as Warchief not being stripped — yet.

“I’ve been given authority to bring you to Boralus, _if_ it so pleases you.” Sylvanas scoffed at that.

“So they _are_ extending courtesies to their criminal Warchief,” she drawled, bitter sarcasm oozing from her voice as her thumbs began to stroke the back of Jaina’s hand and the underside of her wrist. _That energy…_

“It’s more like they trust my judgement,” Jaina replied, seemingly unaffected though her eyes did cautiously watch the Warchief’s hands atop her own. Sylvanas smiled a bitter smile at that. Jaina hesitated. “I...know.” One of Sylvanas’ ears quirked slightly in question — a weakness, a sign of her living habits breaking through as she continued to slowly decay without _energy._ “At least they trust that I know what I’m doing in trusting _you._ I hope that trust isn’t misplaced.” Sylvanas’ breath hitched, after which she stopped breathing altogether — better to stop that nonsense than risk any more external reactions. “I don’t trust you farther than I can throw you, but I don’t think you’re every inch as bad as they portray. Not after...what I’ve seen.”

Sylvanas hummed. She’d heard Jaina, loud and clear — “in trusting _Sylvanas.”_ Trust, albeit small and tenuous, from the Lord Admiral was a surprise. She may have expected something similar just from Jaina Proudmoore’s track record with giving people too many chances, but the idea that someone would try to trust her at all after all she’d done still gave Sylvanas a shock. Most of the details of the mage’s words, however, became a blur. She needed to stop holding onto Jaina’s hand. She needed to let go. Or else she may be unable to at all.

Jaina’s other hand came to rest atop Sylvanas’, causing the Warchief to freeze and look up at her. She wasn’t quite quick enough to mask the surprise. Her reactions were slowed slightly, her focus off, her eyes burning more dim than usual. Jaina noticed.

“Sylvanas...are you...okay? That’s probably not the right word, but—”

“No.” The answer was quick and tumbled forth from Sylvanas’ lips without her permission. She sighed in frustration at herself. “Well. I’m _okay._ But...I may not be for much longer.”

“What?”

“Do you remember what I said about...us not being immortal? And requiring the energy of the Val’kyr to sustain us?” Jaina furrowed her brow in thought for a moment before her eyes widened in surprise.

“They haven’t asked if you need anything.”

“No.”

“And you need...what, exactly?”

Sylvanas’ focus returned to Jaina’s hands, one thumb stroking the soft patch of skin on the underside of Jaina’s wrist. Jaina looked down as well, expression cautious but curious.

 _“Energy.”_ Sylvanas’ voice held more of its otherworldly tone than Jaina had heard that day. Sylvanas _hungered._ Deep down, in a part of her still driven by the will to _survive_ in whatever way she could be considered “living,” she _hungered._

Jaina parted her lips to speak, but closed them after a moment, watching Sylvanas’ hands closely as though contemplating something.

“You said your people needed the energy of the Val’kyr...do you need me to go—”

“It doesn’t have to be just the Val’kyr,” Sylvanas murmured, feeling the heat of Jaina’s _life force_ near her, her chest opening with warmth and the desire to _consume,_ to _drain._ She swallowed thickly, though it did nothing to sate her.

“Just...energy, then?” The archmage asked, looking back up at Sylvanas — but Sylvanas couldn’t tear her eyes away from Jaina’s hands, from the steady pulse that thrummed beneath where her thumb pressed slow circles into Jaina’s wrist.

That _heat._ That undercurrent of such _power._ She wanted to draw it into herself, to consume it,

“...Sylvanas?”

to feel that power course through _her_ nerves,

“Sylvanas.”

to feel one as powerful as _Jaina Proudmoore_ quiver as she _gave_ to Sylvanas, to taste that warmth in her mouth, to pull on it with her fangs deep in the archmage’s neck—

_“Sylvanas!”_

The Warchief finally tore her eyes away from Jaina’s hands and met her eyes, a dull ache around her wrists as she saw in her periphery the remnants of what little of her Banshee form she could muster fizzle out. She stayed stock-still, unbreathing, unmoving, her thumb lifted off of Jaina’s pulse so she could no longer fall into its intoxicating rhythm that melded with the crackling, molten energy of pure arcane and mana that coursed through the archmage's veins like a rising flame—

“Sylvanas stay with me here, what’s going on? What’s wrong? Are you going to be _okay_ like this?”

Sylvanas’ movements were jerky as she shook her head no.

_Vulnerable._

“Do you need me to get you anything?”

Sylvanas furrowed her brow.

_Vulnerable._

“Do you need me to... _give_ you anything?”

Sylvanas’ gaze snapped up from where it had trailed off into space to meet the archmage’s eyes again, this time intensely and with a clarity borne only from a predator preparing for its meal.

_Power._

“Is it...do you just need _energy?”_

_Energy._

Sylvanas nodded, her movements still nearly mechanical though some of her predatory instincts were starting to roll into her like a panther, restoring some of her normal function from the desperate state she was in moments before — the prospect of _sustenance_ was here.

 _Take it. We have to take it. Accept it. Accept her...help. Accept her help. I am so tired of this game of living, this mockery of life, but...I need it. I’m so tired of fighting but this is_ not _how I want to go._

“How?”

Sylvanas nearly growled.

 _There are so many ways. Oh—! How I wish I could sink my fangs in that pretty, pale pink flesh on your neck, Jaina...to drink your life force — so abundant, truly — and your_ power _straight from the source...but no. That’s...dangerous. And she’d never agree! Don’t be_ foolish, _Sylvanas._

“I need to siphon it from you.” Sylvanas’ voice was darker, deeper than before, carrying with it a chill that seemed to brush by the entire room.

“Do you need a conduit?”

Sylvanas looked at their still-joined hands.

“Flesh will do.”

“You’re not gonna...melt my flesh off or anything doing this, are you?” Jaina asked, a hint of amusement coloring her voice because she knew it wasn’t _really_ a question she needed to ask. Sylvanas scoffed and rolled her eyes, a glimpse of the Warchief’s _normal_ stature flashing through.

“Of _course_ not, _Lady Proudmoore._ I don’t think the _Alliance_ would take too kindly to their key prisoner singing their most powerful asset’s hands in something they likely wouldn’t even sanction…” Sylvanas all but purred. Jaina took a deep breath.

“You’re probably right.” She sighed. “They probably _would_ let you continue to...starve? Can...whatever’s going on be considered starving?”

“Yes.”

“Well...if you’re going to be of any use to us, I’d certainly _hope_ they wouldn’t let you starve. But I also know they probably wouldn’t think you even _could._ _I_ didn’t think you could until...well, a few minutes ago.” She paused. “So what do we do?”

“This is going to be uncomfortable,” Sylvanas warned dryly.

“I can take it. I’ve siphoned energy before.”

“This...will be a bit different. But you’re right, you can take it,” Sylvanas countered with a smirk. If anyone could handle a little bit of agony at her behest, Jaina Proudmoore certainly could. She paused. “For starters, you’ll have to actually _grasp_ my hands. None of this...bar holding nonsense.”

The pair removed their hands from the bar simultaneously. Jaina eyed Sylvanas’ proffered hands, glancing behind her to make sure the guard she’d ordered away had, indeed, stayed away — he had. It was as though she were contemplating what she was about to do.

“If you stand there much longer I’ll ask you to just get some poor soul who won’t be missed,” Sylvanas quipped. The implication unnerved Jaina, which spurred her into motion.

Palm against palm, Sylvanas’ hands atop Jaina’s, they wrapped their fingers around each other’s wrists. Sylvanas could feel the undercurrent even stronger now, arcane mixing with blood and nerve and flesh, calling to her. She leaned closer just from the pull she felt towards it.

“Wait,” Jaina suddenly said. “Will this even work?” Sylvanas responded with a look of utter confusion.

“What do you mean will it work? It’s a simple energy transfer—”

“No, I mean with the cuffs.” Sylvanas looked at her wrists.

“Oh.”

Jaina took a deep breath.

“Look. If I’m going to try to give you a modicum of _trust,_ I need you to prove that trust is deserved right now. I can only...um. _Feed_ you if you don’t have the cuffs on. Otherwise they’ll just absorb it and send that surge of pain through you again.” Sylvanas took a deep, measured breath. Jaina’s next words were soft-spoken. _“Prove_ this to me, Sylvanas. Prove to me that you are more than what the Alliance has painted you as...what they _all_ painted you as…”

Sylvanas weighed her options carefully. She could try to escape the instant the cuffs were off, but she was in close quarters with perhaps the one being on Azeroth that could equal her strength. She’d never make it out — it would ensure a swift death.

On the other hand...Jaina intrigued her. She was more impartial than Sylvanas had thought. She was closer to an independent thinker than any of the other Alliance leaders. And Sylvanas would be lying to herself if she said she didn’t want even just a _taste_ of that power before she died.

So she relented, relaxing her shoulders.

“I won’t flee.”

“Can I _believe_ that?”

“You can. And if you don’t, you’re more than capable of just striking me down between here and the door.”

Jaina rolled her eyes but let a small smile touch her lips at Sylvanas’ dry humor. In most cases, it was annoying, but there were times the Banshee’s wit was something Jaina could appreciate, in some cynical way.

“All right,” was all Jaina said before reaching a bit further up Sylvanas’ wrists and feeling the arcane machinations therein. They were easy to unlock for her — she’d helped design an earlier iteration some time ago in Dalaran, after all.

When the cuffs were off, she let them drop to the floor in favor of inspecting the _damage_ to Sylvanas’ wrists. Though the Banshee just wanted to pull her arms towards herself and inspect and soothe them herself, she just rolled her eyes and allowed Jaina her inspection — the human was gripping her wrists pretty firmly, after all.

Sylvanas hazarded a glance down as Jaina looked her wrists over. Where they had burned her flesh, her skin was cracked. Traces of the black ichor that served as her blood had dried around the wounds there. Judging by the look on Jaina’s face, she’d never encountered Forsaken blood before...at least not up close.

She started a little at a cool sensation that wrapped around her wrists where the cuffs had been — frost magic from the archmage before her.

“It doesn’t hurt much like a burn may for you,” Sylvanas informed her.

“No? Surely you feel _something.”_

“I do. But it will heal just fine with what we are about to do.” That seemed to get Jaina’s attention back on track. She put her hands back in the position below Sylvanas’, fingers wrapping back around the Warchief’s wrists — though the chill from the frost magic around her wrists remained. Sylvanas resisted rolling her eyes. _Foolish, sympathetic human._

“What do _I_ need to do in this, Sylvanas?” Jaina asked.

“Open yourself to me.” Her voice had grown hard — it was time, and she was a predator focused on her prize.

“How?”

“Accept me when you sense me pulling at your energy. I will do my best not to touch your life force.”

“My what—?”

But it was too late for questions. Black mist rose from Sylvanas’ arms and back, her eyes darkening and seeming to blossom plumes of the undead magic that powered the Banshee that resided within this cold body made completely her own in life and in death.

A sparking sensation prickled at Jaina’s hands, then wrists, then up her entire arms, digging into her body. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the foreign sensation, accepting it into herself, allowing the energy, which sparked and split like lightning inside of her, to spear deep into her torso through her shoulders.

A dull ache throbbed behind the sparks — the channels of energy digging into her held a pulse of their own, not so unlike a heartbeat. _Was this what Sylvanas’ energy felt like normally?_

The spears of energy in her quivered and retracted a fraction, as if in response to Jaina’s thoughts. They righted themselves a moment later, but not before she heard — to her utter shock and dismay — the Banshee...say? _Think?_ From somewhere deep in that energy that pierced into her: _“Oh. ...fuck.”_

And with that thought came blinding pain and a blistering heat — Jaina’s world turned white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HMMMMMMMM


	5. Jaina

 

 _So tie me to a post and block my ears,_  
_I can see widows and orphans through my tears._  
 _I know my call despite my faults and despite my growing fears._

All Jaina could feel was _pain._ Pain, which blossomed from her solar plexus in a diagonal across her torso. Pain, which felt like she was being torn out of her own flesh.

At first, her world was just white — she couldn’t see a thing. But as she was able to discern the source of the pain, a shimmering visage appeared before her — a field of yellow tulips, trees in warm hues in the distance...she looked down to where the pain was located and saw _that accursed blade. Frostmourne._ Piercing her skin, drawing her soul out of her— wait. Her...lithe, elven body? That wasn’t right…

Suddenly, she was falling backwards as if she’d been pushed. She blinked, and she _was_ falling back. She was in the Stormwind Stockades. Sylvanas Windrunner was pressed against the wall farthest away from Jaina, who landed unceremoniously, barely able to put her arms out behind her to break her fall a bit.

She looked up at the Banshee Queen across from her and saw the normally well-collected woman staring at her with something akin to _fear_ etched into her features, chest heaving with breaths Jaina knew the Warchief did not need to take. _What_ was _that?_ She wondered.

“I…” The hoarse voice sounded odd coming from Sylvanas — the otherworldly timbre was still there but it sounded like she was a living body that had become quite dehydrated. She cleared her throat. “I am _so_ sorry.”

Still in a bit of a daze, the apology threw Jaina off even further — Sylvanas didn’t just _hand out apologies_ like that. She shakily made her way back on her feet, using the bars of Sylvanas’ cell to balance her. She felt disoriented but not as though anything had been taken — she didn’t sense a change in her energy at _all,_ actually. Did that mean…

“Sylvanas. What happened?”

The Warchief was still staring at where Jaina had landed on the ground, seemingly frozen aside from her heaving chest.

“Sylvanas, talk to me. You can’t just... _starve_ yourself.”

“I can if I so please.” The response was swift, in clipped tones.

“What went wrong?” Jaina tried again.

Sylvanas let out a shuddering breath and finally made eye contact with Jaina. There had been no change in the Warchief’s pallor and she still seemed as starved as she was before...whatever that was.

“You’re going to have to get me some... _other_ living being. Maybe a criminal. Or an animal, for all I care.”

“What? I don’t understand. Wouldn’t siphoning arcane from me be easier?” Sylvanas let out a sigh.

“It...would, normally. But...the arcane. It _lives_ in you. It is intricately intertwined with your life force. I cannot separate it.”

“I don’t understand,” Jaina repeated. Death magic, particularly of _any_ sort of vampiric nature, was not something she had spent much — if any — time studying.

“I can’t feed from you without also feeding on your life force.” Jaina took a deep breath.

“Is that why…”

“Why you heard me? Why I heard you? Why _part of you ended up reaching into_ me _as well?”_ Jaina bit back a gasp. That certainly explained the things she saw. After a moment, Sylvanas continued. “The first two are common. Draining life force can be a bit... _intimate,_ for lack of a better word.” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t know _what_ the fuck your energy was doing reaching out to _me.”_

Jaina took a deep breath of her own and broke eye contact with the Banshee. She had...her _energy_ had...speared _back?_ That didn’t make any sense.

“Is that...why you didn’t take anything?”

“Yes.” Sylvanas’ voice was steady. Hard. “I would _never_ take from someone who didn’t want me to see at least _some_ part of their stronger memories. It comes with the territory. And they tend to be negative.”

 _So I was watching you...die._ The realization washed over Jaina with a powerful wave of nausea. If Sylvanas hadn’t pushed her out when she did, she would have likely seen his _face._ How he looked when he—

“You can see why I wasn’t about to let that happen in reverse.”

Jaina nodded, still feeling queasy.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m...just...need a minute,” Jaina replied.

Sylvanas took a moment to gather herself while Jaina went about sorting herself out.

“I’m not going to be able to just...bring you some living thing, Sylvanas,” Jaina said after a moment, cutting through the silence. “Not unnoticed. It would be found out either somehow on the way in or in evidence left behind.” She sighed. “I don’t know what your options are other than…” Jaina hesitated. “That.”

“So let me starve.” It shocked Jaina how detached Sylvanas sounded about it. Clearly, the Banshee had been suffering, despite whatever mask she was able to mostly adopt now.

“No.”

“They will kill me anyway.”

“They might not.”

 _“What?”_ Sylvanas hissed, rearing around to look at Jaina with dimly-burning eyes.

“What, do you _want_ that?” Jaina asked, incredulous.

A moment passed. Then another. Sylvanas’ lack of an answer was answer enough and it tugged at something in Jaina’s core. _What are you_ doing, _Jaina?_ She asked herself. _What are you considering? What...would it mean?_

“What would draining my life force do? To me.” The words were out of her mouth faster than she could think about it. _Shit_.

 _“What?”_ Sylvanas’ eyes were narrowed to slits. _She does_ not _like this idea..._ I _don’t like this idea._

“Well...since I can’t bring you something else, I can’t let you just waste away here, and _my_ energy is all...mixed up with my life force, what would feeding on me _do?”_

Sylvanas took measured breaths. She was at least _considering_ Jaina’s words. With a final, deeper breath, the Banshee rose and strode over to the bars of her cell, close but not quite as close as they’d been before. Sylvanas studied Jaina’s face closely through narrowed eyes.

“What are you _thinking,_ Proudmoore?”

“I...don’t know,” Jaina admitted quietly. “Just...answer the question. As completely as possible.”

Sylvanas sighed and turned around, pacing a circle around her cell as she spoke.

“Draining one’s life force tends to involve...well. The memories, for one. Drawing your life force into my body would likely expose to me your most painful memories. The things that haunt you. I got glimpses but I stopped as soon as I did. There’s also the thought transfer. While our energies are in contact, I’d be able to hear your thoughts. And you’d hear mine.” Sylvanas returned to her prior spot, standing close to the bars. “And finally, there’d be some...physical contact.” She paused. “There are...three ways for this, really. One is weakest, which would have been what happened if I took some of your energy just now. The other option...has two variations.” She narrowed her eyes at Jaina again. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Uh. Yes, yes I do,” Jaina replied. Sylvanas sighed.

“Very well. The faster, more efficient, and more _sustaining_ way involves blood.” Unbidden, Sylvanas’ eyes flicked to Jaina’s neck for a moment. “I would have to drink your blood.” Jaina took a steadying breath.

“You said there were two variations to that.” She crossed her arms. “How?”

“Well. _Normally,_ taking your life force would be...quite painful, really. It would be less so if I did it the way I did other energies. But if I were to _bite_ you...the pain would be localized to some degree. But that means it would also be concentrated pain. More intense. You would feel it more.” Sylvanas paused and a smirk made its way onto her features. “But that can be changed. The whole exchange can be quite...pleasurable, if both parties play along.”

Jaina didn’t like the tone or implications of the latter bit. Considering letting a hungry _Banshee_ near her life force was enough. Any dalliances...no. That would be possibly the _last_ thing Jaina wanted to encounter. Really, she didn’t want _any_ part of Sylvanas near her. Much less Sylvanas’ _teeth_ near her _jugular._ But there she was, considering it.

 _If I don’t do this, Sylvanas won’t survive the week. She thinks it’s readily hidden but I can see the strain it’s causing._ Jaina sighed, resigned.

“All right.”

“All right _what?”_

“I’ll let you,” Jaina replied. Sylvanas quirked an eyebrow.

“In what way, _Lord Admiral?”_ That honeyed, self-satisfied tone was back.

“You don’t need _much_ blood, do you?”

“No. Not very much very often.”

“Then I will take the pain.” A smirk grew across Sylvanas’ lips with predatory grace. Jaina took a deep breath before continuing. “And then I will take you to be held in Boralus.” Sylvanas nodded.

“All right then. You will have your way, Jaina Proudmoore.”

“When I open this cell...you must promise you won’t flee. I _won’t_ be responsible for the release of the most wanted prisoner on Azeroth.”

“If I had wanted to flee more than I wanted _your energy,_ I would have fled the moment those cuffs came off. I am not limited to just a physical form.” The way Sylvanas said _‘your energy’_ sent a shiver down Jaina’s spine, her own energy surging in response. Which reminded her…

“What if my energy seeks yours again?”

“Then you had better be prepared for what you might see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit on the short side, I know, but the next chapter will make up for it.


	6. Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice I added a chapter to the chapter count — that’s because, in order to do this section justice, I realized I had to split it in two. More for you!
> 
> This chapter totally doesn’t include any Sylvanas “I Know The Effect I Have On The Ladies” Windrunner...of course not, you silly dogs!

 

 _But I will hold on hope, and_  
_I won’t let you choke_ _  
On the noose around your neck._

 

Jaina took a shaky breath to try and steady herself. To calm her nerves. Was she _insane?_ She was about to let the _Warchief of the Horde..._ Sylvanas fucking _Windrunner_ sink her teeth into her—

“Hold on a second,” she said. Sylvanas quirked an eyebrow. “Where, exactly, will you be…”

“Biting you?” Sylvanas asked, amused. Her voice was low and she took a step closer, maintaining eye contact with Jaina. “Major arteries are the easiest.” Jaina tried not to think about how deadly that sounded. “That only leaves so many options, really.”

Jaina knew her basic anatomy. And, thinking about it, unless the Banshee’s jaw could unhinge — an image she desperately tried not to conjure as soon as the concept occurred to her — it really only left... _two_ options. Both were…

“Like I said,” Sylvanas continued dryly. “Giving up one’s life force can be a bit... _intimate.”_

The word conjured two images in Jaina’s head simultaneously, which made her swallow thickly. She wasn’t sure which was more disconcerting: the thought of Sylvanas Windrunner’s teeth in her neck or thigh, or the fact that both images sent semi-similar bolts of heat through her body. She cleared her throat. She needed to focus. This was about Sylvanas’ _survival_ so that Jaina could _get information_ from her and explore the inner workings of the Banshee’s mind, not…

Jaina swallowed again. Right. This was a sacrifice she had to make for the Alliance. That was an easy premise to repeat to herself. It would be painful, and she _and_ Sylvanas would both see their most painful memories, and she _wasn’t_ going to think about how Sylvanas implied it didn’t _have_ to be painful, and…

“So...are you going to open the door? It’d be a _little_ hard to do this through the bars.” Jaina felt heat rise in her cheeks along with annoyance at the Warchief’s self-satisfied tone. _Fuck._

Jaina resisted rolling her eyes as she reached into a pouch on her belt. She ran her fingers over the key Anduin had given her before pulling it out. He’d entrusted Jaina with Sylvanas’ transport, knowing she could just port the two of them to Kul Tiras. As she slid the key into the lock, she tried not to think about how he’d react if he knew she’d removed the cuffs which... _mostly_ cut Sylvanas’ Banshee powers off and was about to let possibly the world’s most wanted prisoner take her _“life force.”_ She was literally risking her life for the infuriating woman.

 _“Good,”_ Sylvanas purred as Jaina opened the cell door. She stepped out and stood beside Jaina, eyes flicking down to her neck briefly. Jaina felt every bit the prey she very likely was to the Banshee Queen, a thought which gave her pause. _Was_ her life fully at risk here? She’d be able to fight back against Sylvanas if she started to take too much, wouldn’t she? She bristled a bit.

“If you try to drain me dry I’ll fucking end you,” she warned, refusing to shrink under the High Elf’s hungry gaze. Yes, that’s what those simmering red eyes betrayed, there was no denying it: Sylvanas _hungered_ for Jaina’s blood.

“Come, now, Jaina,” Sylvanas began, practically patronizing the archmage. “Where’s that _trust_ you were so ready to give earlier?” Jaina scoffed.

“You are _impossible,”_ she replied. After a beat, she continued. “So...how do we do this? Do I need to sit somewhere?”

“Not unless you want my teeth in your thigh.” The response came quickly and Jaina had to close her eyes and take a breath to concentrate on banishing the thought of Sylvanas on her knees between Jaina’s legs, sinking her fangs deep into her skin — _Tides,_ she needed to get laid. She didn’t realize she was so touch-starved as to feel some sort of... _response_ at the thought of the _Banshee Queen_ doing...something like that. Her frustration with Sylvanas’ attitude and her own hormonal ineptitude shone in her eyes when she met Sylvanas’ gaze again.

“No,” Jaina snipped. Sylvanas quirked an eyebrow.

“Suit yourself, Proudmoore,” she said, stepping into Jaina’s personal space.

Jaina’s chest tightened and she found herself holding her breath as Sylvanas’ cold hand came up and cupped the back of her head, tilting it slightly to the right. Jaina’s breathing thereafter was shallow — for a sworn enemy, Sylvanas was surprisingly gentle with her. _Probably just because I’m her next meal,_ a cynical part of Jaina’s mind whispered. _Unless she’s actually this careful with the ones she’s...fed off of,_ another, deeper, maybe more naive part of her said.

Was that what she _wanted_ to believe? That Sylvanas Windrunner, the Banshee Queen, the _Dark Lady_ was capable of being _gentle?_ Sylvanas’ fingertips brushed against Jaina’s skin as they moved aside some loose hairs on Jaina’s neck in a gesture that could almost be called _tender._

“I don’t envy you for what you’re about to experience,” came the dark murmur from Sylvanas as she leaned closer to Jaina’s neck. Jaina bristled.

“Nor do I envy you,” she replied. She was proud of how steady she managed to keep her voice as she was enveloped by the chilled aura of the Banshee Queen, the scent of cold steel and faded flowers wafting over her. The Warchief’s breath hit Jaina’s neck and the shell of her ear, causing her breath to catch. _Damn_ her body for reacting to this. _Damn_ her throat and chest for feeling tight at the Banshee’s _still-gentle_ cradling of her head. _Damn_ Sylvanas for being such a fucking enigma—

 _“If you use any of what you see against me, I’ll gut you.”_ Sylvanas’ voice was low, a threat murmured practically against the lobe of Jaina’s ear, so close she swore she felt cold lips glance across her skin. Jaina sucked in a quick breath through clenched teeth. She struggled to come up with a response, feeling entirely overwhelmed by the confusion and types of frustration Sylvanas was instilling in her.

As Jaina finally went to open her mouth to respond to the Warchief, four sharp points grazed her neck, sliding down, closer to where her throat met her shoulder. The words died on her tongue, mouth still parted, but Jaina felt, ironically, quite frozen. Cold breath — _did Sylvanas_ really _need to breathe like that? —_ wafted across her skin. Jaina felt both terrified of the surely painful, mercilessly personal moments that were about to transpire between herself and the _Warchief of the Horde_ and, though she was loath to admit it, practically _wanted_ Sylvanas to bite her.

Sylvanas had stopped moving for a moment before Jaina felt the chilled, damp muscle of the Banshee’s tongue stroke left to right to left again between her teeth against the archmage’s neck. Jaina suppressed the shudder she felt ready to course through her. This was going to be _painful._ Her pathetic, touch-starved responses were just that — pathetic, touch-starved responses. This wasn’t a situation in which she’d actually _get_ anything satisfying out of it. She wouldn’t even _want_ that with _Sylvanas Windrunner._ No deep, amused chuckle against her skin would change that.

Sylvanas’ chuckle against her skin was the only warning Jaina got before those fangs which had hovered barely against her skin pushed their way into her, breaking the surface of her skin with ease as the Banshee Queen tightened her jaw around Jaina’s neck. Jaina felt the blood come forth with a dangerous ease — she knew how out of control bleeding from major arteries and veins could be. But she didn’t get to think long on that before she felt a searing pain blossom from that very spot.

Once again, Jaina’s world went white. With her eyes clenched shut against the pain, she half-staggered towards Sylvanas, gripping one of the Banshee’s shoulders tightly to brace herself. She felt the coolness of Sylvanas’ fingers through her robes as the Warchief brought her free hand up to hold Jaina up near her ribs. The pain flared and Jaina scrunched her face up further.

Muscles tense, Jaina jolted a bit when she felt the cool, wet muscle of Sylvanas’ tongue stroke from side to side against her skin again, as if trying to soothe her. For a moment, the pain receded enough for her to feel Sylvanas’ energy reaching into hers yet again. It was enough to remind her she needed to allow Sylvanas in.

Jaina felt Sylvanas’ energy spear into her own much like her teeth sank into Jaina’s neck, reaching deep into her own energy in her torso through her shoulders. The pain in her neck flared again as Sylvanas pulled at her blood and energy and it made Jaina take a deep breath in through clenched teeth.

When she did so, however, Jaina’s energy coiled around Sylvanas’ where it pierced into her and climbed up those spears of energy back to Sylvanas’ body, wrapping them like cords. It rushed up and into Sylvanas’ energy of its own accord, as if drawn towards something. Jaina wasn’t sure what that was beyond a strong feeling of familiarity.

When Jaina’s energy coiled its way into Sylvanas, Sylvanas groaned against Jaina’s skin. A warm sensation blossomed from where Sylvanas’ teeth sunk into her skin that made her tighten her grip on Sylvanas’ shoulder and plunge her fist into the Warchief’s hair tightly. She didn’t pull away, though. She just held her there.

For a moment, it seemed as though the wound Sylvanas had made and attached herself to alternated between pulses of pain and warmth. Then, the images came. With each surge of pain, she saw flashes of Theramore, of its ruin, of her father, of _Arthas._ With each surge of warmth; it was more conflicting — she saw Sylvanas’ death at the hands of Arthas, the way he forced her to destroy her own people, when the Alliance turned her away once she broke free, how her _sisters_ turned her away. But it was paired with the warmest, most filling sensation that pooled in her gut and soothed over each wave of pain.

Sylvanas groaned against Jaina’s neck, practically crooning, as she heard the Warchief’s otherworldly voice echo in her head, murmuring a low “oh... _god.”_ Jaina exhaled sharply through her nostrils and gripped Sylvanas’ shoulder tighter, fighting not to make any noise, though she knew, in the back of her mind somewhere, that Sylvanas would hear the mental echoes of the groan she suppressed.

The whole exchange lasted no more than a few minutes but the memories rushed through them as fast as lightning. When Sylvanas finally began to pull her energy back into herself, Jaina heard her telling herself that she’d had enough; that it was time to stop. Unbidden, Jaina felt herself reach out to Sylvanas’ energy, holding it in place, a hurried _“no”_ ringing out in her mind as it tumbled forth like instinct. She hesitated at that, faltered, and felt almost as if she and Sylvanas were standing there, two bodies of energy staring at each other rather than with Sylvanas’ teeth buried deep in Jaina’s neck. Jaina apologized, both internally and with a whisper, and forced herself to allow Sylvanas’ departure from her energy body.

Sylvanas’ teeth slid out from her neck in a way that made Jaina shudder — something not helped by the fact that the Banshee lapped at the tiny wounds gently thereafter. She kept her eyes closed as Sylvanas did this, feeling... _some_ sort of magic sealing the holes in her skin. Only upon opening them a moment after the Warchief stopped and pulled away did Jaina open her eyes.

Sylvanas hadn’t taken even half a step away, her red eyes vibrant once again, and only a foot away from Jaina’s face. There was something wild there in the look Sylvanas gave her but Jaina found she wasn’t afraid. Rather, she felt she understood Sylvanas on an entirely new level — perhaps because she did. Perhaps more than hardly any other. The thought should have disturbed her but she felt so placated by whatever it was that filled Jaina with such warmth and contentment while the tragedies of Sylvanas’ life played in her mind’s eye like some sort of twisted dichotomy of tragedy and peace.

The idea struck a chord inside Jaina — the dichotomy of tragedy and peace living simultaneously inside one woman was something she was no stranger to. That was her life, her history. And now she knew one who understood it as well as if not better than herself and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sylvanas’ actions were all driven by that point of pain.

The thought of pain made the area Frostmourne had pierced Sylvanas’ torso and ripped her apart ache on the archmage’s own chest. She brought a hand up to it, pressing a closed fist to the area. Sylvanas’ eyes softened in understanding.

“Jaina…” Sylvanas murmured, devoid of any typical sarcasm or detested titles. “That...was more than a simple energy transfer.” _That_ sent a spike of anxiety through the mage, snapping her (mostly) out of her reveries. Her eyes searched Sylvanas’.

“What do you mean?” She asked, hating how her voice sounded smaller than normal. The Warchief sighed heavily.

“Your energy siphoned some of _mine_ in return.”


	7. Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants a glimpse at the emotional climate of the Sylvanas I write (and to hear a heart-wrenchingly beautiful song), you should listen to the song “Wilderness” by Jacob Riddall. That’s some good shit right there. It also played a couple times while I wrote this chapter, so there’s that.

 

 _And I’ll find strength in pain, and_   
_I will change my ways._ _  
I’ll know my name as it’s called again._

 

Sylvanas watched Jaina carefully, unmoving, awaiting the archmage’s reaction to what she had just told her. It was true, after all — when Sylvanas began drawing from Jaina’s energy and body, some part of Jaina’s energy had pulled on her, as well. The entire exchange had been wholly unexpected and not something Sylvanas had ever experienced before.

Admittedly, part of the exchange had unnerved Sylvanas deeply — she wasn’t sure of the repercussions and wasn’t particularly fond of someone else knowing _with that level of specificity_ the ways in which both life and death had tortured her. In all fairness, though, she had seen the things that plagued Jaina in return, so it was at the very least equal.

Perhaps that was why, despite parts of her mind screaming out to her that a sworn enemy knowing such intimate information was real _danger,_ Sylvanas remained mostly calm in the moments thereafter. Part of it, surely, had to do with the relief she felt in having not just her strength replenished but also such a _vibrant_ current of energy coursing through her. Jaina’s energy was wholly unique. The way in which the arcane danced with her life force along with...some other, third force — something to do with the Tides the Kul Tiran Stormsages worked with, Sylvanas supposed — was unlike anything she had experienced before, as well.

Sure, Sylvanas had mixed business with pleasure before and even bedded a few of the individuals who’d sustained her before when an undercurrent of Vry’kul energy was unavailable — but the exchange with Jaina hadn’t been like that. She wouldn’t deny to herself that she wanted more, of course, that her body ebbed and flowed with fresh energy that resonated with and thereby drew her towards the human in front of her, but she had no interest in crossing _that_ line on top of everything else, attractive though the Lord Admiral was.

No, Sylvanas had crossed enough lines already, all within such a short period of time. She needed to ensure that her memories — the memories of _him_ and what he _did_ — had not caused any lasting damage or effect on Proudmoore. Proudmoore, who stood before her with eyes still aglow from the recent flowing of energy between them. Proudmoore, whose smooth, full lips were parted ever so slightly in shock. Proudmoore, who Sylvanas’ instincts most definitely were _not_ suggesting she pin against the wall opposite to her and sink her teeth right back into that supple flesh.

“What does that mean?” Jaina’s first response came after some time. There was no malice in her voice — Sylvanas supposed that, in and of itself, was a small victory.

“I’m not sure.” Sylvanas’ voice surprised both of them, if the look that passed across Jaina’s face fleetingly was anything to judge by. It was as though the otherworldly echo of Sylvanas’ voice had been duplicated somehow as Jaina’s energy in her settled, giving it an ethereal quality despite its generally lower timbre. “I’m not familiar with the effects this sort of thing has on humans,” she admitted. Jaina hummed in thought.

“Do you think it’s permanent?”

“I’m...not sure. Again, I’m unfamiliar with this.” Jaina frowned.

“Surely you know _something_ that might be helpful,” the mage replied. Sylvanas sighed, eyes dulling in mild annoyance.

“You’d have to tell me what ‘it’ is, Proudmoore.” There was the slightest bit of an edge in Sylvanas’ voice — a warning she hoped the Lord Admiral would heed that she was treading on thin ice with the direction of her line of questioning. Sylvanas held little patience for people — particularly _enemies_ — trying to figure out any aspect of how she worked, whether it be mental, physical, or otherwise. Jaina narrowed her eyes at the Warchief.

“This... _feeling,_ Sylvanas.”

“What feeling?”

Jaina huffed in frustration, snatching one of Sylvanas’ hands into her own and pressing it against her solar plexus, mirroring where Frostmourne had cut through the Warchief’s skin. Sylvanas held her breath and dared not respond. She was at once both anxious and angry because of Jaina’s audacity.

 _“This_ feeling,” Jaina hissed. “I saw where he...where Frostmourne…”

“Yes. I know.” Sylvanas cut Jaina off before she could stumble over more words that would provoke Sylvanas and make the Warchief feel further backed into a corner. She couldn’t afford to lash out now — not when Jaina had given her such a _gift._ Not when said gift had her body thrumming and her aches temporarily at peace.

_“I can still feel it.”_

Jaina’s voice came as a whisper, nearly silent as she pressed Sylvanas’ curled hand a bit more firmly against her body. Sylvanas’ brow furrowed. _That_ was not a good development. What, exactly, had Jaina’s energy done during their exchange? What had she drawn into herself?

Sylvanas studied Jaina’s still-glowing eyes for any sort of clue. After a moment, she noticed something about the energy _causing_ Jaina’s eyes to glow — it was subtle, but it was there. Jaina’s eyes weren’t _just_ glowing with the normal blue-white of the arcane. Every now and then, around the edges or almost somewhat behind the soft, blue-white glow, Sylvanas caught a glimpse of what looked like dark, purple-black smoke wafting through. The Warchief sucked in a quiet gasp.

“What?” Jaina prompted, searching Sylvanas’ eyes with concern.

“You didn’t just take in some of my energy, Jaina,” Sylvanas responded quietly. She tried to hold on to the way Jaina’s energy ebbed and flowed within her like the Tides Jaina’s people were tied to in order to stay level, stay grounded, stay calm at least externally. “You _kept_ some of it.” Jaina’s brow furrowed in confusion.

 _“Kept_ some of it? What do you mean?”

Sylvanas turned the hand that Jaina still held to her chest so that her palm was against Jaina’s solar plexus and her fingers splayed out across some of where the scar from Frostmourne stretched on her own torso.

“It aches, does it not?”

“It...does.” Jaina didn’t seem done with the thought but seemed to be holding her tongue.

“But…?” Sylvanas prompted.

“But it’s dull, as though it’s sitting in the back of my consciousness. As though I could ignore it, for the most part.”

Sylvanas took a steadying breath, closing her eyes and trying to feel past the ebb and flow that continued within her body. Behind it, she felt that same ache, one which was a constant of her existence, a persistent reminder of what Arthas Menethil had taken from her. But it was softer than before, more easily ignored. She opened her eyes.

“I cannot tell you whether or not this will be permanent, Jaina.” She paused. She needed to stop saying the mage’s name so plainly. They were still sworn enemies, after all. “...Proudmoore.”

“Do you suspect it will be?” It was a loaded question. Sylvanas felt, almost as though she could read the archmage’s mood, that a wrong answer — or even just an answer Jaina didn’t like — could easily bring with it some more serious repercussions. She’d already been imprisoned for a week. She wasn’t looking to lengthen that sentence even further. Sylvanas braced herself. _No deception,_ she thought as she took a slow breath.

“Yes,” she breathed. She swore she could almost _feel_ the anger as it surged in Jaina’s eyes. She watched the archmage close her eyes and take a series of measured breaths. Sylvanas schooled her expression into rigidity. Now was no time for anything other than steadiness. “So long as that energy lives and remains within you, I suspect that feeling will persist. It always has for me.”

“So...you take energy _permanently?_ It stays within you...forever?”

“Well, in a way,” Sylvanas began, drawing her hand back from Jaina’s body. Jaina jumped ever so slightly when she looked down and noticed she’d still held the Warchief’s hand against her. Sylvanas couldn’t resist a small smirk at the mage’s reaction. “I’m not eternally accumulating energy or anything like that,” she continued, turning away from Jaina for a moment to pace a circle around the cell she’d been in. “I burn through it, much like you living folk burn through calories. It’s eventually consumed, ‘digested,’ and in need of replenishing. But...if there’s a _bond,_ well.” She cleared her throat and walked back up to Jaina, looking intently at her eyes which still glowed faintly with the blue of the arcane, though it had died down largely. Deep grey-purple shadows, however, still flickered across Jaina’s irises from time to time. She wondered if that would also be permanent. “I try not to drink blood directly from the source if possible. I try not to drink it at all, considering the energy of my Val’kyr or a conduit of typical necromantic energy or even the _arcane_ is usually readily available, but...the few times I’ve taken blood from the source, a bond was made which lasted until the being’s death. I’ve come to call them blood memories. If what you’re experiencing is anything like that...I suspect you’ll carry that with you the rest of your life, Jaina Proudmoore. I don’t plan on letting you outlive me, after all.”

Sylvanas looked down at Jaina’s chest then, at the place she knew Frostmourne had scarred her own body. Something akin to sympathetic sorrow passed through her features fleetingly. Frostmourne, and the man who’d wielded the blade, had scarred so many souls. Many of which now looked to her for guidance, for leadership. And suddenly, before her, stood a new soul the permanent, icy pain its wounds left behind would ache with. She furrowed her brow. She was _responsible_ for this. Darkness crept in around the edges of her thoughts, anger causing her eyes to burn.

“Sylvanas?” Jaina’s quiet voice broke through her reverie. She met the mage’s eyes with a quirked eyebrow and a hum of acknowledgement, though the darkness in her mind did not recede. A timid hand was rested on Sylvanas’ right shoulder. She resisted the impossibly strong urge to shrug it off, knowing the atmosphere between them was delicate, at best. “I...what are you thinking about?” Jaina seemed to wince slightly. “I...think I can feel that,” she finished quietly.

“You what?” Sylvanas replied, eyes narrowing. The energy which felt like the steady rolling of the ocean rolled within her, as if struck with a wave of...anxiety. “...Oh.” She paused. _“Oh.”_

Sylvanas nearly wished she still had the capacity to be sick with the way that sudden knowledge passed through her. This was more than just responsibility for Frostmourne leaving another stain on an already-scarred life. Far more. _Yes, a_ bond _really had been prudent word choice, hadn’t it?_ She thought darkly. She watched that grey-purple smoke pass through Jaina’s irises with her thoughts. _That_ would be something...interesting to get used to.

Another wave of anxiety passed through what Sylvanas now knew to be the ocean-like energy that was Jaina’s end of things, followed quickly by a stronger wave paired with a gasp from Jaina. Sylvanas winced. That would certainly take some getting used to.

“Sylvanas…”

 _“What,”_ she snipped, immediately regretting the surge of anger she felt as Jaina grimaced and her eyes darkened.

“Your eyes…” Jaina murmured, staring intently at Sylvanas.

 _Oh, fuck. That’s affecting me, too? Fantastic,_ she thought.

“You... _too?”_ Came Jaina’s quiet question. Well, Sylvanas had _thought_ she thought that but, barring any further response to any _other_ thoughts — which she promptly tested by asking, internally, if Jaina could hear her, to which she received no response — it turned out Sylvanas had simply been incredulous enough to murmur it out loud. _Shit._ Sylvanas sighed in mild irritation.

“Yes. It seems that when I have a particularly strong response to something, a reflection of my energy passes through your eyes.” She kept her tone measured and even.

“What does it look like?” Sylvanas bit back a sarcastic retort.

“Like smoke, but darker and with a touch of purple. It passes across your irises.” She paused. “What about with...whatever it was that _you_ saw?”

“It’s like...the edges of your eyes flash white, sort of.” Sylvanas took a measured breath. She wanted to test it, to get a better description.

“And you can’t be more...accurate than that?” She asked. Jaina sighed.

“I’d have to see it again to—“

Sylvanas surged forward, pinning Jaina to the wall. Jaina gasped, grasping at Sylvanas’ arm which was pressed across her chest to hold her there.

“There. Tell me.” Jaina’s eyes swirled with dark purple and grey clouds, a reflection of the turmoil in Sylvanas’ mind. All at once she wanted to be gentle with Jaina, if only because of her guilt and sorrow at practically forcing this new, persistent pain upon the archmage, and take her rage out on her for the bond Jaina’s careless energy had wrought between them. Jaina took an unsteady breath.

“Let go of me first.”

Sylvanas huffed and pushed away from Jaina, pacing impatiently from side to side.

“Where the edges of your eyes and the burns beneath them tend to glow red, they flare white,” Jaina informed her.

“All right.” Sylvanas’ voice was detached and she stood still, facing away from Jaina. “Take me to Boralus, then.”

“What?” Sylvanas turned to look at Jaina, eyes devoid of emotion.

“You said you’d be able to relocate my... _imprisonment_ to Boralus.”

“Ah. Yes, I can do that. I’ll have to...put the cuffs back on, though.”

“So be it. Just get it done, Proudmoore.” She was schooling her emotions into silence — it seemed not even _that_ was private for her anymore. She’d well and truly had every last thing taken from her, it seemed. Luckily, it seemed that she could only feel Jaina’s stronger emotions. She hoped that went both ways. _The rest of it certainly has,_ she thought darkly.

A wave of anxiety rolled through Jaina’s energy as she approached Sylvanas, tentatively holding the cuffs up a bit, imploring Sylvanas to lift her hands for her. Sylvanas complied without a thought or response. The archmage took the cuffs and laid them on Sylvanas’ proffered wrists, reaching under to seal them. As she did and the cuffs got closer to being fully around Sylvanas’ wrists, however, sharp pain raced through practically every nerve ending of Sylvanas’ body. To her credit, Sylvanas managed to steel herself against it, her response no more than a strong wince despite the fact that it felt like her entire nervous system had been lit on fire inside of her. Jaina, on the other hand, gasped and cursed as she staggered towards Sylvanas, bracing one arm against the Warchief’s shoulder as she had before.

“You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me,” Sylvanas hissed. “Your energy...it’s too strong to lay dormant. Of course it is. Why _wouldn’t_ it be? Nothing _else_ has gone right with this, so why would that?” She continued, sarcastic pseudo-humor thick in her voice. Jaina righted herself, cursing under her breath again. “I guess you’ll just have to exercise more of that _trust_ now, won’t you, _Lord Admiral?”_ The taunt was obvious in Sylvanas’ tone but she almost — _almost_ — regretted it when she felt the hurt and anger surge through Jaina’s energy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has completely run away on its own adventure and I have no idea where it's going to end up anymore, holy shit.


	8. Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know quite a few of you have wondered how this story will wrap up in just a few more chapters -- rest assured, there will be some sort of conclusion, but think of it more like the end of a season of a TV show rather than the end of a movie. The next fic in the series will follow in this one's footsteps but with quotes from the next track on the album: Winter Winds.

 

_So come out of your cave walking on your hands_   
_And see the world hanging upside-down._ _  
You can understand dependence when you know the maker’s heart._

 

When it rolled through Jaina’s energy, Sylvanas noticed, anger felt like a tempest out at sea. It was an emotion so familiar to her but feeling it in this very different way fascinated her, somewhat. The undercurrent of hurt, which bordered on something akin to a mild betrayal, however, was less so. She enjoyed playing with people’s emotions, admittedly, but her most recent barb — spurred on by a need to regain some shred of control over the situation — lacked any tact whatsoever. Jaina quirked an eyebrow at her, indicating she’d felt Sylvanas’ war with something she admitted to herself was...regret. Sylvanas pressed her lips into a thin frown.

“I swear on the Tidemother if you somehow exploit this and escape in Boralus I’ll make it my personal vendetta to find you and have your head,” Jaina threatened, a touch of menace to her voice Sylvanas rarely had the pleasure to hear. Anger was like a soothing balm to her — it was predictable in its unpredictability, calculated in its chaos, and a fire which both consumed and contained itself. It was familiar, and _that_ she could deal with.

However, Sylvanas had to admit to herself that she needed to play her cards right and be good...for a while, at least. Even _if_ the reason behind that was mostly because she simply wouldn’t survive on the run forever. Mostly. The rest...well, that had largely to do with the morose responsibility she now felt towards Jaina, in some respects. Jaina was now, potentially permanently, painfully and consistently aware of where Frostmourne tore into Sylvanas’ body all those years ago. It was a pain they now shared — a pain Sylvanas had caused to perhaps the one other being on Azeroth who understood the pain of loss on a level akin to how she had experienced it. And now they were bonded, both knowing _intimately_ the pain and loss they had each endured.

Sylvanas felt like she was having emotional whiplash. Emotions, generally speaking, were troublesome to the Banshee Queen. They clouded judgement and cluttered thoughts. Though she’d never act — internally, of course — like she were above emotion’s grasp, she did pride herself on how masterfully she could school those emotions into silence. With what had just transpired, however, she found it far more difficult to keep herself an entirely neutral or even single-faceted emotional being.

Not only was it jarring to feel another’s emotions so vividly — particularly those of one Jaina Proudmoore, a very much living, human being susceptible to emotion in ways even living elves were not — but Sylvanas also found herself at war with her _own_ emotions. The anger was easy. It was easy to be angry at Proudmoore for taking part of her energy, for taking from her without permission, for seeing the things she’d seen. But that wasn’t all rational and she knew it. It wasn’t as though Jaina had _tried_ to take Sylvanas’ energy. Maybe it would have been easier if she had.

She was also fraught with guilt and a touch of sorrow. Emotions she was especially loath to feel towards an _Alliance_ leader. But she knew firsthand, more than likely anyone, the pain Arthas Menethil had been capable of inflicting. And Jaina already knew some of that before unwittingly taking on a portion of Sylvanas’ pain. Sylvanas had been weak, and greedy, and, although Jaina _had_ pushed the Warchief a little to avoid self-imposed starvation, it was ultimately _Sylvanas_ who had volunteered the information and _Sylvanas_ who sank her teeth into the human’s neck. She wondered, briefly, if anyone would notice the small marks she knew her teeth had left behind on Jaina’s skin.

Sylvanas knew Jaina had been privy to her emotional turmoil when the archmage sighed and ran her hand along the upper half of one of Sylvanas’ arms. She glared at the offending hand but tried not to bristle too severely at the gentle contact.

“Sylvanas…”

“Warchief,” Sylvanas snapped, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

_“Warchief,”_ Jaina corrected quietly, much to the Banshee Queen’s surprise. She held her unnecessary breath, waiting for the Lord Admiral to continue. Jaina’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, and although her hand no longer ran up and down Sylvanas’ sleeve it remained with subtle but firm pressure on the Warchief’s shoulder. “There’s so much more I want to understand, but...I think this has inadvertently answered so many of my questions.”

“And what of my sentence?” Sylvanas asked, trying to steer away from any further _personal_ discussions. “I doubt the _High King_ would be pleased to know you let me out of those cuffs.” Jaina huffed.

“No, he wouldn’t be,” Jaina replied. She paused for a moment in thought. “I...really only see one option here, Sylvanas.”

“And that would be…?”

“I will have to inform them of your need for energy, and put you in more standard cuffs. As a result, however, you’ll have to remain with me. I am, after all, one of the only ones who could stop you.”

Sylvanas bit back a snort at the mage’s audacity. Surely, Jaina Proudmoore would be quite a challenge to take down — but it was doable. She knew this with vicious certainty. The archmage _was_ a living human first and foremost, after all. But, on some level, Sylvanas still respected the mage’s considerable power. There was something _more_ to Jaina, she’d always suspected, that the archmage kept well-concealed. Some source of power or mastery she didn’t make use of. Sylvanas would be remiss to underestimate an enemy like that. She clicked her tongue.

“Very well, Proudmoore,” Sylvanas replied. “I will accompany you to Boralus and remain by your side as prisoner so long as you keep me _sustained_ or allow for my Val’kyr to remain nearby.” Jaina nodded.

“Your Val’kyr may come and go as you need, Sylvanas,” Jaina replied. “They must remain out of sight and not interfere with anything or anyone, but they may come and go in order to sustain you.”

“I find this agreement amenable, _Lord Admiral,”_ Sylvanas drawled. A wry smirk then curved the Banshee Queen’s lips. “...and if, for some reason, they _aren’t_ able to appear…?”

The Warchief knew it was a low blow, and likely a tender subject given what had just transpired, but she couldn’t help grinding a little salt into the very fresh wound that was part Jaina’s failure to keep Sylvanas as a powerless prisoner as intended and part Sylvanas’ own failure to resist the pull of Jaina’s energy. She felt a dark satisfaction at the way Jaina’s energy rolled within her. She was regaining ground despite all that had been stripped from her and it felt good. Jaina narrowed her eyes dangerously at Sylvanas, like lightning striking the ocean of energy that now flowed within her.

“You cannot _possibly_ be asking what I think you’re asking,” Jaina hissed.

“Oh, but I _am,_ Lord Admiral,” Sylvanas purred, taking a step or two closer to the archmage. Jaina faltered, stepping back when Sylvanas pressed forward. So, feeling quite empowered, Sylvanas repeated the motion. Jaina recovered more readily that time but still stepped back. The Warchief felt the stirrings of a predatory energy within, a feeling that danced well with the trepidation and conflicting combination of defiance and nerves that flickered through Jaina’s energy within her.

The call to take more from Jaina was resurfacing. Jaina’s energy was so strong and the bond between them so visceral that, though she _could_ have resisted, Sylvanas didn’t _want_ to avoid it. She enjoyed the feeling of hunting the archmage Jaina Proudmoore, Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, former member of the Kirin Tor. She enjoyed how she could now taste Jaina’s emotions from within, how instead of having to judge Jaina’s responses based on external cues alone she now could know with certainty before Jaina had even formulated a response.

To a degree of mild horror, Sylvanas realized that predatory instinct within her also wanted to make the experience _pleasurable_ again. Their exchange earlier had not been _entirely_ filled with the burning pain Sylvanas knew would have been there — though it was there with each pull as she drew on Jaina, each time the memories shifted to her _own,_ as Jaina took _her_ energy in, everything had been blanketed in warmth and a sense of...closeness. _Besides,_ Sylvanas thought darkly as Jaina’s back hit the wall and confusion rose within the mage once more. _You’ve done enough damage to her as it is._

Sylvanas stepped into Jaina’s personal space but refrained from touching her at all, save for how her lips brushed the mage’s earlobe as she leaned in to murmur to the mage. Jaina half-suppressed a shudder at the Warchief’s chilled breath wafting over her neck.

_“Do you feel the resonance, Jaina?”_ Sylvanas asked, voice low, honeyed, and ripe with that new extra layer of otherworldliness. _“Do you feel how our energies dance together now?”_ Jaina swallowed hard and let out a shaky breath. Sylvanas could feel the turmoil in Jaina’s energy but liked the direction the mage’s emotions were headed. The archmage most certainly felt the resonance Sylvanas spoke of. She subconsciously placed her right hand on Jaina’s hip. _“Tell me...would you sustain me if the need arose?”_

Sylvanas felt the shift in Jaina’s energy like lightning arcing over open seas. The resonance she felt between her energy and the bit of Jaina’s that ebbed and flowed inside her flared. And then, both of Jaina’s hands were on Sylvanas’ hips.

“I _hate_ you,” Jaina hissed. Sylvanas smirked, pulling back to look Jaina in the eyes.

“I know,” came the Banshee Queen’s simple response. “...is that a yes?” She finished. Jaina huffed and rolled her eyes but the tightened grip on Sylvanas’ hips paired with the simmer of Jaina’s energy in her body and the ever-growing resonance between them betrayed her.

“Yes, fine,” Jaina said, managing a dismissive tone despite the accumulating energy that nearly crackled around them in reality and how it bade Jaina to let the Banshee Queen in again. Sylvanas let out a huff of her own, but out of amusement rather than distaste.

Gone was any pretense Sylvanas had hoped to muster. She was, first and foremost, a huntress. This instinct was never lost on her, never dampened by death. And, as much as Jaina had become her jailor, as much as she now felt some sort of morose _responsibility_ towards the archmage, she had also become Sylvanas’ _prey._ The taste Sylvanas had of the raw power that essentially _was_ Jaina Proudmoore was like an aphrodisiac — an aphrodisiac that now lived inside of her, rolled and swelled with the Lord Admiral’s mood, and left her wanting _more._ The faint marks on Jaina’s neck where Sylvanas’ teeth broke the pale peach skin taunted her, calling to the more animalistic parts of her which were filled with the want to pursue, to claim, to feel the crackling surges of arcane that coursed through the mage paired with the roaring of the sea. It was glorious and she wanted to possess it, to toy with it, to _control_ it. Sylvanas’ smirk widened against Jaina’s earlobe.

_“You know,”_ Sylvanas purred, _“you took quite a risk in giving me a taste.”_ She punctuated her sentence by tracing the edge of Jaina’s earlobe faintly with the tip of her tongue. Jaina’s energy surged within her as the archmage let out a harsh, shuddering breath. _“That was very brave of you. Very...trusting.”_

The soft flesh of Jaina’s neck tempted Sylvanas greatly — though her mind was beginning to cloud with the simultaneous desire to sink her fangs back into that delicate skin and to simply taste it with her lips and tongue. The heat that coiled within Jaina’s energy inside of her was like a brightly burning flame, bidding her to drift closer, to feel Jaina’s warmth against her skin so chilled by death and her own necromantic energies. It was heady and left her reeling a bit internally.

The distraction should have bothered Sylvanas more than it did — in fact, her thoughts contained that very sentiment. But as much as it alarmed her to be so out of balance, to feel her thoughts clutter with simultaneous, semi-conflicting desires...a louder part of her that was normally tucked away _relished_ it. That part of Sylvanas was, for the vast majority of the time, suppressed and locked away under blankets of pain and the bitter belief that uninhibited pleasure was no longer possible for her. Any time she’d been intimate since her death — very few and far between though those events were — she had been indomitable, entirely in control as she ever was. It had been enjoyable, and satisfied her predatory needs, but it was controlled, rigid, and carried on with the same demeanor she carried herself with as Warchief, as Queen.

But this...oh, this was different. Perhaps having the essence of such a passionate, emotional being living within her was adding to her wants. Perhaps she just had a particular interest in Jaina Proudmoore’s power. Perhaps it was the thought of subverting that power. It may have been a mix of those things but in the end it mattered not — what mattered most and what Sylvanas craved more than all of that was the _heat._ The heat of Jaina’s energy within her, the heat of Jaina’s hands still squeezing at her hip bones, the heat of Jaina’s breath as it brushed past the very edge of her cheek, the heat of Jaina’s blood pumping so close beneath her skin. She hadn’t even realized she’d begun to lean in until her lips brushed against the skin just behind Jaina’s earlobe.


	9. Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this count as edging? I think this counts as edging.  
> :^)

 

_So make your siren’s call and_  
_Sing all you want._ _  
I will not hear what you have to say._

 

Sylvanas’ lips brushed against the sensitive span of skin near Jaina’s earlobe, followed by a swipe of the tip of her tongue. The sensation made Jaina close her eyes and tense her stomach to choke back a groan. It felt as though Sylvanas was a dark cloud around her, inside of her, consuming her, commanding her senses as the Dark Lady teased and pushed at the Lord Admiral’s control. The Banshee’s energy was dark smoke within her, like an æther of shadows curling and coiling within Jaina’s body with the seductive promise of power and fulfillment. The cool, silken touch of the Warchief’s tongue against her neck threatened to undo her.

A small part of her wondered if this was a scheme of Sylvanas’ — if she was orchestrating an escape, trying to get Jaina into a vulnerable position. But there was something in Sylvanas’ reaction to their bond that made her doubt that the Warchief, usually ruthlessly cunning, was up to anything malicious. No, this seemed similar to that same hunger from before — genuine and entirely focused on taking more of Jaina into her body and energy.

It alarmed her how _good_ that sounded. Every time Sylvanas had pulled at her life force, her energies had twisted and recoiled and resisted, making it feel as though thin blades were being pulled out of her where Sylvanas’ fangs punctured her neck. But Sylvanas told her it didn’t _have_ to be like that and, after every pull, the way Jaina had drawn _Sylvanas’_ energy in had been such a warm, soothing balm that washed through Jaina in waves. Those thoughts, paired with the way Sylvanas’ lips and teeth and tongue absently danced across her skin, made Jaina feel like, in that moment, she wanted nothing more than for Sylvanas to take from her again. Maybe more.

Sylvanas hummed against Jaina’s skin, making the mage clench her hands tighter around Sylvanas’ hips again to resist pulling the Warchief’s body closer — the contact was so deliciously out of reach but she dared not give in. She felt so _weak,_ so ashamed of the obvious ways Sylvanas’ words and actions affected her. She could not give up more ground. _Jaina_ was supposed to be the one in charge. _Jaina_ was the one to monitor Sylvanas. But Jaina was also the one to uncuff the Warchief. To let her out of her cell. To grip her shoulder and all but lean against the Banshee Queen as her fangs sank deep into Jaina’s skin, pulling blood and energy and the essence of the sea out of the archmage, giving power to her _prisoner._

Thinking of Sylvanas as her prisoner gave her pause. Though Jaina knew, abstractly, that Sylvanas was the enemy, she hadn’t fully processed the fact that here she was, Jaina Proudmoore, Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras — which was now officially an Alliance nation — with _the criminal Warchief of the Horde in her arms._ With those _sinful lips,_ which wove _so many webs_ in this war, pressed tightly against her neck, pulling at her skin with gentle suction in a mild imitation of what had transpired just minutes before. The thought both disgusted her and gave her a thrill she desperately wanted to ignore.

But the Warchief had other plans. Of course Sylvanas had felt that thrill go through her. How could she not? And _of course_ Sylvanas wouldn’t just let that go. No, the Banshee Queen smirked against her neck, letting the skin go with the quietest of noises as it slipped free of her lips, all but _purring_ her next words into Jaina’s ear.

“You _like_ that.”

Jaina sucked in a quick breath. She wanted to deny it but knew there was no use. Sylvanas could _feel_ the heat pooling low in Jaina’s body. She wanted to blame it on being touch-starved. And maybe part of that was true — the last person to touch her intimately had been Kalecgos, after all. But more than that, Jaina knew, was the absurdity and taboo.

The attraction held a twisted irony at every turn. Sylvanas was beautiful, but she was _dead._ They were both filled with pain, but Sylvanas was _the enemy._ They both were powerful women, but Sylvanas was _her prisoner._ It should have all pushed Jaina away but it called to something darker within her. A part she kept hidden most days under lock and key. A part she’d tucked away when she offered her aid to the Alliance in a more formal capacity again.

What Sylvanas was on the outside was everything Jaina kept hidden on the inside. Rage. Anguish. A thirst for _vengeance._ Sylvanas’ character externally was comprised entirely of those three things and she wielded them well. Jaina somewhat envied how Sylvanas could let it all just _be._ Jaina had a taste of it when she’d run off to fight the Legion on her own, her heart twisted by grief so powerful she didn’t trust herself to be around anyone — something else that Sylvanas simply let free. And, while the destructive wake Sylvanas’ rage left behind was assurance to Jaina that she’d done the right thing in being alone, there were days she still wished she could step out of her role as the pristine Lord Admiral and lash out against a world that had punished her for simply wanting the Horde and Alliance to coexist.

For every life lost at Theramore, Jaina’s heart _burned._ For every scream, for every crash of stone to sea, for every trace of excess mana that bleached her hair and left scars no one — save Sylvanas — would ever even know of, Jaina’s blood _boiled._ It was something she feared was permanent. And maybe, judging by Sylvanas’ history, it was. For so long, she felt like she may never let it out... _until_ _Sylvanas._

Jaina felt the fires of desire and rage and _hate_ burn through her lungs and she felt Sylvanas’ energy flare with a twisted delight in response. She dug her fingertips into the Warchief’s hips, pressing hard through her leathers and bringing Sylvanas’ body flush against her own. This was something they _both_ needed — she could feel it. And she felt Sylvanas inhale sharply, felt the Warchief’s chestplate press into the leather bodice around Jaina’s robes with every breath, felt Sylvanas war with her own desire.

_“Yes,”_ Jaina growled out finally in response. “I _do.”_ The groan against her neck that escaped the Banshee’s lips was unexpected and sent a bolt of heat straight to Jaina’s core. “But I still fucking hate you.”

“I’d never expect anything less, _Lord Admiral,”_ Sylvanas replied with a chuckle. The Banshee’s voice lowered to a whisper with her next words, catching Jaina off guard. They were so smooth and quiet that they lacked the echo Sylvanas’ voice naturally carried as a result of her undeath or even the resonant tone it had picked up when she’d consumed Jaina’s life force. _“Take me to Boralus.”_

Jaina’s breath hitched and her eyes snapped open. That’s _right._ They were in the _Stormwind Stockades._ She was against the wall of a _prison._ If they’d kept going without pause, she imagined she’d have been fucked against the wall of a _prison._ There was no point in pretending that’s not where things were headed. With a thick swallow and the shutting of her eyes to focus herself, Jaina wove a spell to teleport herself and Sylvanas.

Jaina knew she needed to get Sylvanas into her new cuffs, needed to inform the other leaders of the Alliance and the Horde, but in returning to Boralus, Banshee Queen in tow, she had ported them directly to her room. That had been a potential destination as it were, given that Sylvanas had to be under her watch at all times, but certainly not in the way they arrived.

They’d arrived in the same position as they’d left the Stockades but against the wall just inside Jaina’s bedroom door, instead. With a blink to get her bearings, Sylvanas smirked at the archmage. She didn’t need to ask to know Jaina’s intentions. Even if she hadn’t been able to feel Jaina’s desire so plainly, it was obvious.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Proudmoore,” Sylvanas threatened. But her energy carried no malice — no undercurrent of anything other than pleasantly surprised want. Still pressed against one another, Sylvanas’ cold breath was close enough to waft over Jaina’s lips in a cruel blanket of sensation that was both exhilarating and so not enough. There was so much building, so much sensation, so much emotion, so much _energy_ between them that Jaina couldn’t stand it. She _loathed_ the woman in front of her but also _admired_ and _desired_ her. The intoxicating feeling of unbridled anger, unharnessed pain, and uninhibited _power_ that radiated from Sylvanas Windrunner at all times had become concentrated and burned inside of her. It was enough to make her snap.

_“Shut up and fuck me,”_ Jaina growled before crushing her lips against the Warchief’s.

Sylvanas groaned deeply, chilled lips molding to Jaina’s almost immediately. She pinned her hands beside Jaina’s head on the wall as Jaina pulled her closer by her hips. Jaina could _feel_ their energies dancing as they kissed like fire and ice twisting and turning around each other inside them both as their tongues danced for dominance in the chill of the Banshee’s mouth and the heat of Jaina’s own.

Sylvanas won that battle, of course. Jaina couldn’t help but _want_ that consuming feeling Sylvanas radiated. She wanted to _let go._ She wanted to scratch and bite and scream until the flame of her pain burned a little less bright...which reminded her to throw up a couple quick wards to prevent any noise from escaping the room and barred anyone from entering.

The spell must have caused an echoing surge of arcane in the risen elf — she _moaned_ around Jaina’s tongue as the energy needed to complete the wards surged through her. She _wanted_ to push that and see if it could affect Sylvanas even _more_ but she quickly realized she’d have to tuck that information away for later, for the Warchief promptly braced herself against Jaina with one hand on Jaina’s hip and canted her hips against the mage’s.

With the first roll of Sylvanas’ hips, Jaina felt the last of her rational thought slip away. The sensation caused them both to exhale sharply through their noses, tongues twisting with renewed vigor as their hands gripped each other tighter. Sylvanas set a slow and steady rhythm with her hips, returning her lips to Jaina’s neck. Jaina craned her neck to allow Sylvanas easier access to that expanse of skin and was rewarded with the tips of Sylvanas’ fangs running from her ear to where her neck met her shoulder. She shuddered and wondered if Sylvanas would bite her again. If it could be as good as she was growing to suspect.

“Bite me,” she whispered. Sylvanas hesitated. _“Bite_ me, damn you! Sink your teeth back in my—“

Jaina’s words cut off into a deep moan as the Banshee Queen slid her fangs back into Jaina’s neck near where they were before. The sensation that blossomed there was somehow both hot and cold, spreading out into her body as Sylvanas’ energy reached out and _caressed_ hers. Rather than simply pulling Jaina’s life force in, Sylvanas’ energy played with hers, snaking its way into her body from where her fangs pierced Jaina’s skin. Rather than drawing at the wound to take in blood, Sylvanas simply let it trickle into her mouth naturally, her cool tongue tracing patterns on the skin her mouth had covered. Jaina shuddered almost violently, her hips arcing into Sylvanas’ suddenly, her hands sliding up ever so slightly to hold Sylvanas by her waist rather than her hips. She wanted to wrap her arms around the Banshee but didn’t dare risk crossing a line. She was wholly unprepared to hear Sylvanas’ voice in her head, having completely forgotten that came naturally when energy transfer like that occurred.

_“Do it,”_ came the honeyed voice of Sylvanas in her head. Jaina couldn’t help but notice a somewhat wistful note to Sylvanas’ thoughts. _“Touch me.”_

Jaina’s breath caught in her throat and her chest squeezed. The pure _want_ in Sylvanas’ voice was touched with traces of _desperation,_ of desire that stemmed from somewhere _deeper._ She knew that feeling all too well, and so she ran her hands up the Banshee Queen’s sides before wrapping her arms around her back, resting one between Sylvanas’ shoulder blades and one on the small of her back, pulling Sylvanas impossibly close.

She felt Sylvanas sigh against her skin, a wave of warmth traveling through her energy, and _knew._ They were reflections of each other, simply inverted. Where Jaina was soft, Sylvanas was hard. Where Jaina was a peacemaker, Sylvanas was ruthless. Where Jaina wanted nothing more than to lash out with her long-suppressed pain, Sylvanas wanted nothing more than to have her pain soothed and understood. And Jaina understood.


	10. Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me how I've managed to take one sex scene and stretch it out over the entire final quarter of this fic, I have no idea. It's like an NSFW character study XD

 

_But I need freedom now, and_   
_I need to know how_ _  
To live my life as it’s meant to be._

 

Jaina’s thoughts were incomplete fragments but Sylvanas knew, as the Lord Admiral’s energy within her shifted from a raging tempest of lust to something more tranquil, that she’d been exposed — that her _weakness_ had been exposed. And it sent a bolt of fear through her gut that she knew Jaina would also feel. She closed her eyes and tried to just focus on the crackling undercurrent of arcane in Jaina’s blood as it touched her tongue.

_“It’s okay, Sylvanas,”_ Jaina thought. _“I won’t tell anyone.”_ The genuineness in Jaina’s words and energy pulled at parts of Sylvanas she’d long thought dead. _“You are safe here.”_

Those four words all but broke the Banshee Queen. The concept, spoken with such pure intention, such understanding, such _trust_ when Sylvanas knew Jaina had seen her deepest aches, the things that haunted her and drove her to desperate displays of rage and vengeance — and that the archmage had also seen those displays and suffered many of the consequences of them — it was overwhelming. _How could she still...after all I’ve done—_

_“I know what you’ve done. But now I know_ why. _And I won’t let you burn another day.”_  

Sylvanas’ chest clenched almost painfully. Her grip on Jaina tightened further and she forced her eyes shut as a feeling welled up inside of her and threatened to spill out. Jaina hushed her gently and pulled her closer. Sylvanas should have hated the quiet soothing...and she sort of did. But more than that, she felt like a wounded animal being shown care for the first time — maybe she wasn’t much more than that anymore. She pulled her fangs out of Jaina’s neck, overwhelmed, and gently lapped at the wounds there — sealing them gently with her undead magic like before.

As she tended to Jaina’s new wounds, she came to realize she was shaking slightly. She huffed a self-deprecating laugh out briefly, rolling her eyes at herself. Of course she’d finally fall apart in the arms of _Jaina Proudmoore._ The idealistic, wounded human woman who’d become one of her biggest targets in this newest war. If Azeroth had hoped to spit in Sylvanas’ face one last time before her execution, the world soul had certainly succeeded.

The hand that had rested between Sylvanas’ shoulder blades reached up and tangled in her hair, massaging her scalp with the same tenderness Jaina’s thoughts had held. Sylvanas rested her temple against Jaina’s and closed her eyes, bitterly resigning herself to this over-emotional turn of events. Jaina turned her head and pressed a kiss to Sylvanas’ cheek, and then the corner of her lips. She rested her forehead against the Banshee’s.

“Let me give you this,” the archmage murmured before pressing their lips together again, effectively forcing Sylvanas not to come back with some sarcastic, defensive retort. All she could do was close her eyes and return the kiss, feeling Jaina’s energy beginning to swell like the Tides within her again. Jaina’s hand on the small of her back pressed their lower bodies together more firmly. The sensation was still warm, still charged with want, but quieter. It made something in the pit of Sylvanas’ chest tingle and, though she didn’t really need it in the first place, she felt breathless. Jaina’s hand moved from her hair to cup her cheek tenderly.

All of the softness caused Sylvanas to ache in ways her internal defenses called for her to rebel against, to reject, to ruin, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t summon the will, couldn’t turn away from something she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was _real._ She could read Jaina’s motives through her emotions, had heard her thoughts, and there was nothing behind these actions beyond _understanding_ and _compassion_ — two things Sylvanas had never dared think another could possibly feel towards her. Not anymore, not after what Arthas had done to her, to her soul. But here she was, pinning Jaina Proudmoore to a wall in Boralus, feeling more understood and cared for than she even had with Nathanos when they were alive. Even the Ranger, her _Champion,_ like a brother to her with all his good intentions and ruthless loyalty, couldn’t hold a candle to how Jaina held her, enveloped her, and acted like a balm to the aches that haunted her from the inside out.

Their lips moved in unison, tongues dashing out to dance with one another again as Sylvanas felt a lump rise in her chest. Jaina’s hand on the small of her back roamed from there, up her side, her thumb brushing the side of Sylvanas’ breastplate, and back down to press their hips together as the archmage canted her hips forward. Sylvanas sighed heavily into Jaina’s mouth, the heat of Jaina’s living body warming her skin as Jaina’s intentions burned in her energy inside the Banshee Queen.

Even as she felt surrounded by Jaina’s heat, Sylvanas felt that soothing undercurrent. It quieted the parts of her that sought to claim, to hurt, to possess, and left her with that raw feeling of need and desperation. It was weakness, but Jaina wanted her to be _okay_ with that. Maybe Jaina didn’t see it as weakness at all. It certainly didn’t seem that way with how the archmage’s heated breath passed her lips sometimes in quiet moans and her hips pressed insistently against Sylvanas’.

It occurred to Sylvanas suddenly that Jaina didn’t want her to be or feel powerless in the exchange — she just wanted her to _let go._ She wanted Sylvanas to know she was _wanted_ and _wanted as she was._ All of her pain, her past, and her crimes were _okay._ And even if they weren’t “okay,” they weren’t enough to bar her from affection, from compassion, from desire. The concept shook her, contradicted everything she’d come to believe over the past twenty-odd years, but Jaina Proudmoore _wanted_ her. Wanted _her._

Sylvanas moaned into Jaina’s mouth with the revelation that it was _Jaina_ of all people who wanted her. Jaina, who in so many ways was her very opposite and yet also paralleled her. Jaina the peacemaker. Jaina the protector. Jaina, proud member of _the Alliance._ If an Alliance leader could want her, after every move she’d made against them, after how they’d all seen her and her Forsaken as _abominations..._ well. Maybe these things really _weren’t_ barred from the realm of possibility.

Sylvanas’ pauldrons had been taken from her in the Stockades, along with most of her armor. Her breastplate and leather legguards remained for decency’s sake and she was allowed her boots as well, but everything else had been taken from her, so it was no surprise when she felt Jaina’s hands fumbling at her back, her breastplate loosening a touch each time Jaina released one of the leather clasps. Her chest heaved with heavy breaths as the archmage began to undress her and it struck her again that _this was really happening._ She ran her hands down Jaina’s back, digging in with her nails through the cloth almost hard enough to tear it. She had originally been the one poised to fuck Jaina into the ground but now she wanted to surrender her vice-like grip on control to the human. She wanted to know what else Jaina could show her, what else she could make Sylvanas _feel,_ for feelings are powerful, intoxicating things.

_“Tides,_ I can’t believe how much I want you,” Jaina murmured into their kiss as Sylvanas’ breastplate was finally removed, leaving Sylvanas nude from the waist up. The mage finally pulled back a touch, separating their lips to take in the appearance of Sylvanas’ torso.

Sylvanas waited with bated breath for Jaina’s assessment of her skin — it carried the scars of war, the scars of her past, the scar of _Frostmourne._ She watched Jaina’s eyes closely and nearly collapsed at the strength of one particular surge Jaina’s energy gave inside of her. It was when she looked at the scar from Frostmourne, she knew. But the genuine ache she felt in Jaina’s energy, the sorrow Jaina felt as she reached one hand up to trace from where it began, the corner ending ever so slightly on Sylvanas’ left breast, trailing down diagonally across her solar plexus to the bottom of her right rib cage, the feeling so deep and sincere but without a shred of pity, overwhelmed Sylvanas. She looked into Jaina’s eyes, which were a storm of blue and grey-purple smoke, in shock at how _much_ Jaina felt. And there was a shred of responsibility in that feeling of Jaina’s, as though she blamed herself in part for what had happened to Sylvanas.

“I won’t let you burn another day,” she repeated to Sylvanas in a whisper, their eyes locked. Sylvanas’ eyes stung as her tear ducts forced a single, too-salty tear from each eye, the first she’d shed since Arthas’ defeat and her subsequent suicide. She swallowed thickly before cupping Jaina’s cheek and pressing their lips back together hungrily. She was going to go mad with emotion if the archmage kept going as she was. She needed _more._ She needed... _Jaina._

The pair resumed kissing with fervor, hands fumbling with ties and clasps and robes and leather as Jaina, with all the grace of a human shaking with desire, steered them beyond her desk covered in scrolls and letters and books, over the rich green floor rug which covered some of the dark hardwood, to her large, four-poster bed. The bed was made of a rich, dark wood which matched the hardwood and was accented by a rich green canopy that matched the rug. The duvet was similarly green, bordered in fine gold embroidery with a large, golden anchor embossed in its center. Beneath it was a golden sheet and a green fitted sheet — it was largely what Sylvanas would have expected yet it held a regal charm that reminded her of Lordaeron. She tried not to think about that and instead focused on the newly-nude Lord Admiral who lay before her, beneath her as she hovered on hands and knees above Jaina, one calf on either side of the human’s blessedly wide hips. She had an hourglass figure and looked to be quite strong for a mage.

Sylvanas noticed Jaina’s cheeks warming up and her energy rolling within her as she appraised the human’s form and reveled in it — reveled in the power she still held over this person who’d unraveled her, taken her deepest fears and beliefs and shattered them. She trailed her fingertips down Jaina’s side, feeling satisfaction at the way Jaina shivered in response.

_“My,_ aren’t you a pretty thing?” Sylvanas drawled quietly, taking her fingers and splaying them across one of Jaina’s hips. Jaina exhaled sharply, her legs squirming slightly as she tried to pull Sylvanas down on top of her. But Sylvanas resisted, wanting to toy with the human for a moment. She smirked, licking her lips and letting a hint of fang show. She watched Jaina’s eyes follow her tongue, lingering where Sylvanas’ mouth remained parted. She could feel the last of the mage’s resolve crumbling, giving way to unbridled desire. It had been some time since either of them felt a lover’s touch, and it showed. Jaina reached one hand up, tangling her fingers in Sylvanas’ silvery locks and urging the Banshee to lean down.

_“Kiss_ me,” Jaina breathed. And, as much as she was enjoying taking in the mage’s nude form, Sylvanas was more than ready to oblige.

When they kissed, it was a repeated pressing of their lips together interspersed with the teasing of tongue against tongue, tongue against teeth, and teeth against lips with the occasional tug. Jaina arced her body up towards Sylvanas’ and when their skin finally met, bodies flush together from thigh to breast, she gasped. The Banshee Queen took quick stock of this reaction and saw the archmage’s eyes flutter as they tried not to roll back into her head and felt both of their energies simultaneously tighten and melt. It was a feeling Sylvanas had only ever had glimpses of before — and that was when she was _alive._

Something fluttered in Sylvanas’ chest at the contact, which she wasn’t the _most_ fond of if only for the fact that she wasn’t _supposed_ to feel this way. Not by any definition she’d lived by since her death. But the emotion itself that accompanied it wasn’t all bad. No, the stirrings of feeling _alive_ weren’t strictly negative. Normally she’d push such a thing away, fear it, rebel against it, _destroy it_ ...but she was trying to _open herself_ to Jaina, to _believe_ in the archmage’s intentions — they’d be damned near impossible to hide, so it was less an exercise in trust and more an exercise in how to navigate such a thing when it went so vehemently against everything she had constructed around her darkened, bruised, cold-steel heart.

But there, in Boralus, in a specific room of Proudmoore Keep kept protected by one of Azeroth’s most powerful mages, where it was just her and Jaina — where they could just be Sylvanas Windrunner and Jaina Proudmoore, _people_ with real pasts and scars and fears rather than figureheads or icons with expectations — Sylvanas could press a thigh between Jaina’s, feel the burning heat of the mage’s core as dampened golden curls brushed against her skin, nip at the archmage’s lips, and try to lose herself in the way Jaina Proudmoore _made her feel alive._


	11. Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. This marks the natural end of this part of the series. What comes next will deal with the loose ends and how these two hopeless gays figure out what exactly it is that they're doing. I hope you've enjoyed it, I hope you enjoy this, and I hope you enjoy the next fic (which will begin very soon, especially if the speed at which I wrote this one is any indicator).
> 
> Thank you all for your kind words and insights, they've given me more motivation than you know -- as well as a bit more confidence.

 

_And I will hold on hope, and_  
_I won’t let you choke_  
_On the noose around your neck._  
  
_And I’ll find strength in pain, and_  
_I will change my ways._ _  
I’ll know my name as it’s called again._

 

Jaina felt it now — a kinship between herself and the Banshee Queen. She felt it in the desperation that was ever-present on the fringe of each touch, the way Sylvanas’ hands subtly shook whenever she pulled back from their kissing to take in the sight of their bodies together, the way the purple-black smoke that curled and writhed within her ached with a pain she knew too well. It was a pain she suddenly felt compelled to soothe, to _erase._

It should have alarmed her more than it did that she wanted to take Sylvanas Windrunner so wholly. It should have, and she knew it, and she knew from the trepidation Sylvanas thought she so cleverly hid that Sylvanas felt the same. They were _enemies._ The thought kept rolling around in her head from time to time — not enough to truly distract her but enough to file in a “Deal With This Later” box in her mind. The fact that such a box existed, however, _was_ enough to distract her.

“What are we _doing?”_ Jaina murmured against Sylvanas’ lips as hands cupped her breasts gently. _That_ was another thing she wasn’t yet used to — how _gentle_ Sylvanas could be. Sylvanas pulled away and Jaina’s eyes opened immediately at the loss of contact. Sylvanas looked down at her and the energy stilling within her paired with how Sylvanas stopped breathing told her she shouldn’t have said that. She could almost feel the Warchief start to withdraw emotionally and a bolt of fear shot through her. _No, fuck no, don’t pull away._ She quickly reached one hand up to cup the back of Sylvanas’ neck, preventing her from going any farther. Jaina quickly leaned up and kissed still-parted lips firmly. “Don’t go,” she whispered into the kiss. “That’s not... _Tides,_ I didn’t mean to say that,” she continued, leaning back. “This is just…”

“It’s crazy. I know,” Sylvanas responded against Jaina’s lips, a bit cold and only kissing her back a bit. She still allowed Jaina to pull her back down so the archmage could lay back again, though, which Jaina considered a good enough sign.

“It’s crazy but I _want_ it,” Jaina whispered, a lump rising in her throat.

It scared her how desperately she wanted Sylvanas. It did, no matter how much she tried to not think about it. It scared her that, just a few days ago, looking into those crimson eyes and burned-in tear tracks would have instilled hatred and distrust in her but now, on her back, entirely vulnerable, she felt like she could drown in them. It scared her that she was on her back, entirely vulnerable, underneath a woman who could kill her with a single scream and she was _trusting_ that woman because of some energy bond she never even knew was possible. It scared her that she’d let that woman sink her teeth deep into her skin and drink her blood twice without any real concern of her draining Jaina dry. It scared her that she could feel the other woman’s permanent pain, the pain borne of Frostmourne, and that the pain might be permanent for her, too. It scared her how desperately she wanted to _fix_ that for Sylvanas.

Maybe that was the scariest part of it all — how badly she wanted to _help_ Sylvanas. How desperately her heart ached to _alleviate_ the pain of the very woman who had _burned children_ and _blighted her own allies_ instead of trying to _end_ her rule as Warchief in a very permanent way. She had only wanted answers to Sylvanas’ crimes, to _understand_ a bit better. And, while that goal had been achieved, there was so much _more_ now. How had she gone from wanting to make sure Sylvanas didn’t die before she got her answers to touching the Warchief’s face so gently, cupping her cheek, her chest aching with the need to _kiss_ her again?

Sylvanas began to return her kisses more openly but Jaina could tell she was still holding back, her anxieties still on the surface. But Jaina wouldn’t stand for that. She had learned many things about Sylvanas, and gotten more than the answers she’d sought, as inadvertently as it all had been, learned things which drove her to press further.

One — The risen elf had endured more pain than one soul should bear for any lifetime and seemed to only ever encounter more.

Jaina took her hand from Sylvanas’ face and rested it on the Banshee’s body where the scar of Frostmourne lay, breathing emotion into her energy and trying to reach out to the energy of hers that now lived within Sylvanas.

Two — Sylvanas hid it well but had a desperate need to be understood and wanted.

She slowly moved her hand across Sylvanas’ skin from the scar of Frostmourne to Sylvanas’ hip, pulling their bodies closer together. Finding her energy had, indeed, proved simple. She felt Sylvanas’ energy jolt with surprise within her when she pulled her close and resisted smiling into the kiss as the elf tentatively, hesitantly, practically _anxiously_ rested her hips more fully on Jaina’s once more. The contact made Jaina’s heart stutter.

Three — There were certain beliefs the Warchief held about herself that ruled her life, behavior, reactions, and decisions even if said beliefs were flawed or borne simply out of fear.

Jaina traced the seam of Sylvanas’ lips with her tongue, gently requesting entrance. She felt Sylvanas’ energy start to move more naturally within her again, felt the Warchief part her lips, felt the tentative way their tongues met again. She was close to making actual contact with her energy that lived in Sylvanas, she could tell.

Four — Fear was, perhaps, Sylvanas’ greatest motivator.

Jaina rolled her hips into Sylvanas’ as she finally made contact with the bit of her energy Sylvanas had taken in. As she did, she felt Sylvanas’ energy quiver within her and reveled in the gasp the two actions caused the risen elf to release. _I want this,_ Jaina thought and thought powerfully, with the weight of just how much she truly meant that.

Five — Sylvanas was just as susceptible to emotion, even _positive_ emotion, as Jaina was, no matter how many people she’d heard insist the Banshee Queen was heartless, cold, and unfeeling.

_Belore,_ Jaina heard internally in response to her silent declaration and she knew she’d done the right thing. She poured more of her heart into the connection, gave Sylvanas just a hint more of her energy, and felt her chest tighten at the relief that flooded the elf. She allowed her hand to dip lower, tracing from Sylvanas’ hip down a deliciously defined line to the juncture of her thighs. _This is so_ dangerous, _Jaina,_ Sylvanas added after a moment.

Six — The curse of Frostmourne had damned Sylvanas’ soul to an eternal realm of torture and Void upon her final death.

_I trust you,_ Jaina replied automatically. And she realized, with a start, that she truly _did._ She _did_ trust Sylvanas. How could she _not_ at that point? After all she’d seen of what the Banshee Queen had endured, after the way Sylvanas had _actually_ opened up to her, and after she felt the desperate _need_ that lived within Sylvanas day in and day out, Jaina _knew_ the Warchief. Knew her in a way she had never known anyone but herself.

Seven — Sylvanas could never escape the pain of Frostmourne’s scar, could never escape the constant reminder of her death and all she had lost since then.

When a drop of cool liquid fell to her cheek, she cracked her eyes open and her heart _surged._ Sylvanas was crying. Quietly, stoicly, but she was crying nonetheless. _Oh, Sylvanas…_

Eight — Every battle, every military action Sylvanas had taken since her death held within it the echoes of a never-ending sense that she had failed.

_“Jaina,”_ Sylvanas whispered aloud, voice thick with emotion. The archmage’s hand hesitated near Sylvanas’ core. Sylvanas arced her hips towards Jaina’s hand, causing the tips of her fingers to come in contact with a wetness she wouldn’t have believed possible if she hadn’t felt it herself. _“Oh, Gods, Jaina,”_ Sylvanas continued, still whispering, still soundlessly shedding tears. Sylvanas’ energy began to settle even further despite the fact that she was crying, though anxiety still crept around the edges. Jaina wanted to erase that fear.

Tentatively, she parted Sylvanas’ folds, running her middle finger up her slit until she found and gently circled the elf’s clit. She felt a deep shudder run through Sylvanas’ body and energy and heard Sylvanas echo it in thought. _Oh my— Belore, that feels...Gods, my heart..._

Jaina cupped Sylvanas’ cheek with her free hand, guiding their lips back together. They didn’t need to speak — if Sylvanas had something to say, Jaina would know. She wasn’t about to sever that connection so quickly after seeking it again.

Nine — All that Sylvanas had done since Teldrassil, every atrocity she’d committed, every time she’d alienated herself, was to bring the Horde and the Alliance _together._

Sylvanas kissed her with the desperation of someone who had waited far too long for that very moment, though she’d had no idea she was waiting for it at all, and Jaina could feel every inch of the emotions that ran through Sylvanas then. It was beautiful and bittersweet and filled with quiet gasps as Jaina explored further with her fingers. When she slipped one, then two, fingers into Sylvanas’ core, the only coherent thought Jaina could make out in the Warchief’s mind was her _name._ And she had no idea how utterly unprepared she was to hear that until she found herself breathless, breaking their kiss to simply stare up at Sylvanas in wonder.

And she was beautiful. So devastatingly, utterly _beautiful._ As the thought passed through her mind, Sylvanas opened her eyes to meet Jaina’s gaze, crimson eyes flaring like the fire Jaina was stoking within her. Jaina ran her free hand down Sylvanas’ neck, across her shoulder, her chest — stopping to brush her thumb over a taut nipple — down to hold Sylvanas’ hips as the elf began struggling to keep an even rhythm with Jaina’s hand.

Jaina curled her fingers forward, finding the rough patch a few inches inside Sylvanas, and made sure she hit it on every thrust. She struggled to know where to look — in wonder at her fingers, _her_ fingers thrusting in and out of _Sylvanas Windrunner?_ At Sylvanas’ body, her cool, purple-grey skin, and countless scars that told the story of a woman who’d endured _far_ too much? In her eyes? Those burning red eyes that glowed and flared as the Warchief struggled to keep them open, Jaina’s name more urgently in her thoughts, interspersed with curses and phrases in Thalassian she’d _have_ to look up later if she even remembered them because now she was far too occupied with watching Sylvanas Windrunner come undone above her with quiet, surprised moans that began to grow in volume until Sylvanas’s breath began to catch and she barely could utter, in the most awestruck of whispers, _“Jaina…”_

Ten — Sylvanas Windrunner wanted to die. And Jaina would do _anything_ to change that.

Sylvanas’ body suddenly arched and shook over Jaina, her hips stuttering in pleasure, walls clenching around Jaina’s fingers. The elf let out a long, low moan that did things to Jaina she had never experienced before — something she was coming to think was a theme when it came to the risen elf. Jaina felt her own core clench in longing, her breath utterly stolen by how _pure_ the pleasure Sylvanas felt was. Her heart ached and missed at _least_ three beats and she was overcome with the need to pull Sylvanas completely down to her, chest to chest, Sylvanas’ face tucked into the crook of her neck, her arms encircled around the Warchief’s back, filled with the desperate need to _protect_ her.

Jaina carded her fingers through silver-blonde hair, gently kissing Sylvanas’ temple as the Warchief lay silent against her, trying yet failing to complete a sentence even in thought. Her heart felt like it was swollen and she decided that watching Sylvanas Windrunner orgasm was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, the most personal thing she had ever seen, and the absolute hottest thing she had ever seen. But that didn’t matter just yet — what mattered was how _small_ Sylvanas suddenly felt in Jaina’s arms, despite her height as a high elf, and how there were no vestiges of fear lingering around the edge of Sylvanas’ consciousness for the first time in Tides know how long.

“I won’t let them take you,” she whispered into Sylvanas’ hair. “I won’t let you burn another day.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me your thoughts...?


End file.
